SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 14

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to his mighty coolness 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.

~WC~

Transcript of various FBI recorded conversations:

R.T. : "Who is this, and how (expletive deleted) did you get this number?"

NEAL CAFFREY (N.C.): "The question you should be asking is, 'what can Nick Halden do for you that Linus Hauser couldn't?' For one thing, he promised you extreme anonymity, but the mere fact that we're conversing right now demonstrates his inability to deliver."

J.J.M: So what can you do for me, Nick Halden? And why would I want you to?

N.C.: You're awaiting a back order on a few imported items particularly favored by certain, shall we say, urban rivals…

J.J.M.: Yeah…so?

N.C.: So, what if I told you I can have them to you in a week?

S.B.: You can do that?

N.C.: That's why they call me the magic man. That's why a third of Hauser's customers belong to me now. He couldn't keep them happy. I can.

S.B.: How?

N.C.: By cutting out the middleman, which cuts costs considerably for you. Your shipment doesn't sit in warehouses for weeks while palms are being greased.

R.T.: I don't believe you. Nobody's network is that good.

N.C.: If Linus Hauser were handling your situation, I'd completely agree. But Nick Halden guarantees you safe, secured delivery. No loose ends.

J.J.M: Yo, if you're really all you say you are, dog, how come nobody ever heard of you till now?

N.C.: You've never heard of me because I'm a ghost. Unless I'm doing business with you directly, I do not exist. Hauser's on five most wanted lists, including the FBI's, Interpol, and Homeland Security. I am not. He has to move in the shadows. I am the shadow.

S.B.: Okay, so, say we do this thing. How much are we looking at?

N.C.: I like to keep my prices competitive, but for you, and only you, I'll give you, say, twenty percent off. Limited time only.

R.T.: What if Hauser contacts me? What should I tell him?

N.C.: Tell him whatever you want. Tell him Nick Halden says 'hi.' But while Hauser's working on his deep tan in the Mediterranean, I'm working my butt off to get you the best deal possible on the items you need to handle your business. Now you can go with Ban de Soleil, or you can go with me.

J.J.M.: Sounds too good to me. You know what they say when things sound too good.

N.C.: You're right. There's always a risk. But what's life without taking a few risks? I could make the same offer to you competitors. There are at least 40 such, shall we say, "clubs," on the NYPD watch list to choose from. I'm sure they'd be happy to get their hands on what I've got.

J.J.M.: Yo, hold up, hold up! Don't get crazy…

R.T.: Let's say we do this…let's say I drop Hauser and go with you. How does it work? What do you need me to do?

N.C.: Nothing. You're the customer. It's my job to please you. You just sit there and let my people do the work.

R.T.: I'll need some assurances…

N.C.: Perfectly understandable. Ask Hauser if you want. Call him! He'll verify my credentials, but I can't guarantee he won't be upset that you're changing camps.

S.B.: Hauser may come knocking on my door. He's like that, you know. Vindictive as the day is long. I can't be looking over my shoulder everywhere I go…

N.C.: Hauser is too much of a coward to show is face in this city again, much less this country. And if you talk to him, you can quote me. If he does come back, my people will take care of him, and that's a guarantee.

R.T.: Okay…let's do this.

# End recording #

~WC~

Neal removed the headset and took a deep, cleansing breath. Conversation after conversation, consisting of nearly four straight hours, had left him dry-mouthed, exhausted and desperately in need of coffee and food. He insisted on taking no break until the last scheduled call was made and someone was on the hook. Four takers out of ten was a not a personal best for Neal, but the bureau was happy. More importantly, Peter was happy.

Burke removed his own headset and put a supportive hand on Neal's shoulder.

"You did good."

"Thanks, Peter."

Jones ambled over, extending a fist for a bonding bump.

"Smooth as ever, Caffrey," Jones said. "I'm getting food. I'll bring you back something."

"Appreciate it," Neal said, just above a whisper.

Several agents on the team, weary from hours of sitting, listening and note-taking, took the opportunity to stretch their legs and wander off.

"Now we wait," Peter said, "and see who contacts Hauser. Feels like old times…"

"Yeah," said Neal with a weary smile. "Just like old times."

"Okay, what's going on with you?"

"Nothing. Just a little tired."

"Neal, don't…after everything we've been through, don't try to lie to me now."

Neal stood and stretched, rubbing out the kinks in his aching shoulder muscles.

"What's worrying you?" asked Peter.

"I'm just thinking…what if this backfires?"

"Hauser won't get a hold of you again. That is a promise. I'm not letting you out of my sight until this is all over and Hauser is behind bars."

"I'm not worried about me, Peter. What happens if he goes after Mozzie, or Sara, or you?"

Peter stood and stretched, hoping to communicate a lack of anxiety. In truth, the same thoughts had been parading through his own imagination, stirring up discomforting images of Elizabeth and other members of his "crew" in peril at the hands of Hauser.

"Don't you worry," was the best encouragement the agent could muster, for himself as well as for Neal. "This will all be over soon, and life can get back to normal."

"Maybe for you," said Neal, absently rubbing his arm and catching himself. "I'll be taking drug tests the rest of my brilliant career. Speaking of which…"

Neal opened a drawer and removed a manila envelope. From the envelope he shook out a small white sterile cup wrapped in cellophane and replete with warnings and special handling instructions.

He looked as if to say something witty before leaving the room, but in truth, Neal could find nothing funny about his situation, so he merely walked out, leaving Peter to brood in the wake of his silence.

~WC~

After a brief respite to eat and attempt to relax with a hot, mildly sweetened latte, Neal returned to his headset and resume making calls. The more who knew about his supposed coup, the better the chance that somebody would go straight to Hauser with the information.

It was after eight, and outside the crystal clear bureau windows, fog was creeping in, creating a milky shroud enveloping the darkness. Neal stood at a window absently watching as the mist moved eerily under beams of street lights.

Most of the team as well as the other agents on the floor had gone home for the night. Neal remained, as did Peter, Jones and Diana, hoping to pull together alternate plans of attack should Hauser make contact in the next few days. Peter kept in constant communication with Elizabeth, checking in at least every thirty minutes to ensure her safety. Elizabeth, in turn, was keeping tabs on June and Sara, so that none were left vulnerable to the twin demons of chance and mayhem.

"Anyone heard from Mozzie yet?" Neal inquired. It was Mozzie's job to keep an eye on Kristin and Daniel at Thursday.

"He's not due to check in just yet," said Jones. "You know how the little guy is. I'll give him ten minutes, and then I'll give him a call."

"Oh, he'll love that," Neal said facetiously, smiling to himself.

Just at the point where Neal had decided that he was no longer able to concentrate through his exhaustion, and as Peter had proclaimed the day over and offered Neal a ride back to Thursday, the cell phone rang. The one Neal had been using to place the calls. It could have been any of the potential "customers" calling back to change their minds, up their orders, or outright cancel.

Neal checked the caller I.D. display on the phone. He felt a chill run through his wracked, fatigued frame. Unknown, it said. Unknown. No one should have had this cell number except the parties contacted. And only they could have passed the number on.

He didn't want to answer it. He let it ring, three times, four times. After six, it would rollover into the voice mail the bureau set up in case they missed a call. Neal had even recorded the message himself, using his most cheery voice.

As if they could be heard, Peter silently and anxiously gestured to Neal to take the call. Jones quickly sat before the computer to prepare the triangulation program to trace the caller's locations. Diana stood over Jones' shoulder to listen and assist if needed. Peter clamped a hand on Neal's shoulder and nodded.

Answer it.

Neal pressed the call button and listened for a beat. His heart felt as if it was pushing through his chest, trying to abandon his body. His breathing was ragged, his throat suddenly dry as sand. He tried to calm himself with the idea that this could be a wrong number, a back-side pocket dial, a telemarketer. But he knew better. Though the call was on a speaker, open for everyone to hear, he still brought the headset to an ear and held it there.

"Hello?"

Silence on the other end. He could hear that the line was open, but no one spoke.

"Hello?"

Neal quickly hung up.

"Neal!" shouted Peter. "What are you doing? We need time to trace the call!"

"Trust me!" Neal shot back, then turned his attention back to the phone. "He's less likely to think he's being traced…he'll call back…"

Silence.

"Neal…"

Caffrey stared at the phone. Willing it to ring. Willing it not to ring. Either way, he fought to have the courage for whatever happened next.

It rang again.

He let it ring. Three times, four times. He engaged, and tried to sound irritated.

"Who is this?"

"Hello, Neal."

The sound of Hauser's voice detonated an avalanche of emotions. Terror. Grief. Despair. Anger. Humiliation. He felt his hands shaking.

"Hauser…"

"You remember my voice. I'm flattered."

"Bet I know what you want, too."

"So, these disturbing allegations I've been hearing, they are true?"

"Who's your daddy? You take from me, I take from you," Neal said with such vehemence he surprised himself. "I'm hanging up now."

"You need to hear what I have to say, Neal. It's important to your survival."

Neal looked to Jones - how was the trace coming? Jones shook his head – nothing yet. Neal verified it by sight. From where he sat, he could view the laptop screen; the blue color bar indicated that the program running was only at twenty per cent, which meant that Neal needed to keep Hauser on the phone much longer. He didn't know if he could.

"I'm listening," he said, and waited for Hauser's hellish voice to continue.

"I'm curious…I know you are an intelligent man with a great many talents and resources…"

"Now I'm flattered…"

"…but how on earth did you manage to get hold of my list?"

"Found it on e-Bay," Neal said. "Guess I was the highest bidder."

"You have no idea what you have done."

"I think I do. I'm ruining you, Linus. Just like you ruined me. Only, unlike me, your friends are going to come after you and kill you. Because when I'm done, I'm going to make sure everyone knows that Linus Hauser is responsible for their names being leaked to the press. You won't last a week on the streets when that hits the fan."

Then Hauser laughed. The sound of it reverberated painfully through Neal. He closed his eyes, fighting back the post-traumatic effects of that laugh. His wrists began to ache. The healing injection sites on his arm seemed to burn. As nausea whirled in his belly, threatening to expel everything within him, he brought a fist to his tightened lips as if to hold it back. Sweat broke out over every inch of his body. Neal sat back as if to stand and flee. But Peter was there, his hand still firmly on Neal's shoulder, supporting him, keeping him faithfully anchored to reality. He hadn't even realized Peter was still there until now, and he was grateful.

Neal took a deep breath and refocused his attention on the task at hand.

"I must commend you on your rather bold confidence scheme," Hauser continued. "As you are obviously in no real position to supply merchandise to my customers, I surmise that your plan, in addition to 'ruining me,' is to take their money and run. That is your modus operandi, is it not, Mr. Caffrey? Running?"

"You got me," Neal said, hoping to sound flippant. "I guess old habits are hard to break."

"Speaking of habits…how is your newest one?"

"Up to about two hundred bucks a day," he lied, "thanks to you."

"I find that surprising."

"What's so surprising?"

"I assumed you'd put a bullet in your own head long before now. It seems I rather underestimated you."

"Yeah, Hauser, you did. I'm a survivor."

"Yes. Like a rat in a sewer. You take what you can get from the garbage on the streets and scurry back to sewer to consume it in the darkness. I may not have succeeded in killing you before, Caffrey, but I promise you, I will this time."

"You'll have to find me first. Come and get me."

"I'm working on it."

And then the line went dead.

Neal threw the headset down as if it were burning his hand. He rubbed his face and sat back, hoping no one could see how he was trembling.

Peter spoke, his voice low and reverberating. "Jones…please, tell me we got him."

Jones tapped a few keys and stared hard at the screen.

"We got him, Peter."

"Where?"

"He's here."

All turned to Jones, stunned.

"Where?"

"Plaza Hotel."

~WC~

They feared Hauser would be long gone before they arrived at the Plaza, and from what little information they could gather, it appeared they were right. No one fitting Hauser description had checked into their hotel. However, a member of the wait staff at the champagne bar thought he may have recognized Hauser as a patron, remembering that the man left what the staff member considered a meager tip.

As much as Peter wanted to tear the place apart and search every inch of the luxury facility, it was mutually decided that there was little they could do until morning, so all reconvened at Thursday to rest before planning their next move.

~WC~

Once back, Mozzie, who was showing signs of cabin fever from remaining inside so long, wanted to take the opportunity to race out to tend to undisclosed personal, pressing business. Peter protested, but was met with the usual paranoid diatribe about the abuse of those in authority. He relented, advising Mozzie to be extra cautious.

Thirty minutes later, Peter was on the cell to Elizabeth, speaking in hushed tones, reassuring her that all would be well. He had volunteered to pull the first watch, but Neal talked him out of it, and encouraged Peter as well as Jones and Diana to sleep at least three hours. All were thoroughly exhausted from the events of the last few days.

Kristin occupied the bathroom, taking a long therapeutic bath in attempt to relax after hearing the news that Linus was back in New York. Daniel did what he always did – sat with ear buds plugged in deep, rocking back and forth to dark, gothic rock.

Neal knew he would not be sleeping this night. He'd felt so wrecked by the events of the day that he placed a call to Dr. Leslie the moment he arrived. Unfortunately, she did not answer. It was only logical, as the hour was late. When given a prompt to leave a voice mail with the promise of a returned call, Neal simply disengaged the call.

Now he stood staring out of the massive window, wandering how close Linus Hauser could be. How would he react if they confront one another? So many differently scenarios had played out in his imagination since his ordeal began, all of them ending with Hauser prostrate and bleeding before him. But what would truly happen? Would it be Neal on the ground bleeding? Would he fold, stricken by a paralyzing bout of post-traumatic stress, trapped and unable to defend himself or take his much-deserved revenge against Hauser? Would Neal be the Neal of old, able to slip out of any situation and triumph over it, or would he be the weakened Neal who gave up freedom, bypassing the key to the elevator for the venomous contents of a hypodermic needle?

He lowered his head and rubbed his weary eyes until it hurt. When he opened them, he was startled to find Daniel standing before him.

"You okay?" Daniel asked.

"I should be asking you that," said Neal.

Daniel merely stood there, entranced by the view and silenced by adolescent embarrassment. He looked as if he wanted to leave, but something was holding him there.

"My mom told me," Daniel confessed. "She told me about what my dad did to you. I hate him. I seriously hate him."

What do you say to something like that? Neal thought.

The kid moved closer to the window, so he wouldn't have to look at Neal. "She said I should talk to you."

The silence between them was long and discomforting.

"How'd you kick it?" he finally asked.

"Pain. Friends. I know it sounds a little cliché these days, but you just have to say 'no.' Get comfortable with not being high."

"Yeah, that's what my mom says…." He almost sounded disappointed.

"Maybe she's right, then. You keeping to a program?"

"I stopped going. It's boring."

"So go somewhere else. Just don't get fooled into believing you can handle it all by yourself. That's what kept me running for two and a half months. Thought I was smart enough. All my best thinking got me was deeper down the rabbit hole."

"They say stuff like that in program. Where do you go?"

"Right now…nowhere. But I will be. Looking for a place. Maybe I can hang with you. You can be my unofficial sponsor."

"Seriously?"

"That okay with you?"

"I guess."

A long silence again between them again.

"Don't put him in jail."

Neal turned to the teen. Did he still have feelings for his father?

"You can't lock him up. He'll just get out again, and come after us. If you want to stop him, you have to kill him."

"Daniel…"

"I know….he's my father and all…but he never loved us. He just hurt us. Bad. The things he did to my mom were crazy. And the things he did to me…"

He turned to Neal now, tears in his suddenly prematurely aging eyes.

"The only way to stop him is to kill him. If you don't kill him, I will. I swear I will."

"Don't talk like that. Let the FBI…."

"No! You don't get it. If he did what he did to you, what do you think he'll do me when he finds out I'm alive?"

"We won't give him the chance…"

"You don't know that! You don't know anything."

"DANIEL!"

It was Kristin, dressed, hair still damp from her bath.

"You know I'm right, mom!"

With that, the boy angrily and hastily retreated to his corner to plug in his earphones and return to his gothic rock world without this particular pain.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Caffrey. He's so confused…"

"It's okay. I understand exactly how he feels."

"Unfortunately, so do I." Kristin shuddered, fighting her own muddled emotions. "The sad truth is he's right. But it's not the kind of thing you can ask the good guys to do, is it? You should sleep in your own bed tonight, Mr. Caffrey. I can take the floor. God knows I've done it enough times while we were running."

"Forget it," said Neal, then hurried to clear a few things off the bed. "There you go. All yours."

"Thanks. I asked Mozzie earlier, but he didn't seem to know…I can't find my gun. Do you think your Agent Burke may have confiscated it?"

"It's possible. But I'm sure he would've said something first."

Neal looked to where Peter sat. He had dozed off already, head down on the table. "I'll ask him in the morning."

~WC~

He hated electronica, but it seemed that the majority of the clubs with which he still did business insisted on assaulting their patrons' ears with it. This club, Anthropology, operated underground, and was doing phenomenal business this night. The dance floor was packed with gyrating, sweating, stoned and flirting individuals seeking quick, short-term euphoria anyway they could. The bartender was hastily doling out apple martinis and imported beers and constantly clearing out his tip vase.

Linus Hauser pushed through the crowd, not particularly mindful of anyone he may have shoved or toes he may have crushed. Such was the hazards of club life, let them deal with it.

He made his way to the back room, knocking the customary three knocks, followed by two. He heard, even over the pounding, monotonous beat, the locks being disengaged. The security man at the door made sure to look and see before allowing Hauser to enter the small, dark office, then relocked the door behind him.

Hauser was happy, happier than he should have been, after the events of the day. He had come up with several possible ways to punish Neal Caffrey for his latest damage and insult. Nothing seemed to fit the crime – what could he do to make Caffrey suffer in the worse possible way? He was upset until his good friend, the manager of the club had called to say his people had found "the little guy."

"Good evening, Mr. Haversham…"

Mozzie was still groggy, still not sure of where he was. One moment he was hustling toward Columbus Circle, and the next, he was fighting against unconsciousness. Someone had hit him, hit his head. Hard. Now he was in some musty smelling back room, his hands tied to an ancient office chair. And he knew the moment he heard the voice of the man standing over him, it could only be Linus Hauser.

"…I'm hoping you can help me find Neal Caffrey."

~WC~

Neal was dreaming, for the first time in weeks, quite peacefully. He saw himself arm in arm walking with Sara through Manhattan. They were laughing. She clutched him a little tighter, head resting on his shoulder. And then there was shouting.

The voices were not a part of the dream. They came from somewhere outside his subconscious. Neal awoke quickly and noticed that there was a bit of a commotion in Thursday. He hadn't meant to fall asleep; indeed, he had believed he was far too tense to relax enough to slumber. He was wrong. The early morning sun indicted him, and the activity swirling around him was unquestionably his fault.

Peter was at the elevator. Jones and Diana were quickly donning jackets and shoes, checking guns, preparing to leave. Kristin was nervous, crying, shouting, trying to get past Peter to the elevator.

"What's happening?" Neal pleaded. "What's going on?"

"It's Daniel," Peter told him. "He's gone."

Neal put it together quickly. "He's going after his father."

"Yeah, we think so too," said Peter.

"And he has my gun," Kristin said through her tears.

End Chapter 14

Thank you so much – pushing 30,000 hits! I cannot begin to believe it. I'm sure there are stories out there that have done way, way more, but this is a personal best for me, and I'm so grateful to everyone! Please, if any part of this story pleases you at all, I hope you will respond with a review.

You're invited: January 17th! January 17th! January 17th! I'm throwing a White Collar party! We're having tasty deviled ham sandwiches, a very nice halibut with a mango chutney, and lattes! Lots of Lattes. Enjoy the winter premier, everyone, and see you next Friday!