Jacobi Hospital. Friday night. February 27, 2004.
Neal woke with a gasp, and then relaxed again.
"That's the third time tonight," a man said. Neal couldn't quite place the voice.
"Hush, Edmund. He'll be asleep again in a minute."
"All I'm saying is Noelle told us to call if he seemed distressed. She could have been a little more specific. Doesn't this seem distressed to you?"
"You're more distressed than he is."
"It would help if she'd tell us what happened to him. I've spent all evening imagining what it might be that he's dreaming about. Or flashing back to, in Noelle's parlance. I think we have a right to know."
"A psychologist can't share details from her sessions with her patients, darling. You know that." There was a pause. "Henry, on the other hand, seems to know more than he's telling and doesn't have doctor-patient privilege to fall back on as an excuse."
"Oh, you think you're going to crack that nut? Ten dollars says he's not going to spill a single detail."
What had he been dreaming about? Neal pondered that question as he drifted in a state that was not quite sleep. He searched his memory. Something was there, something new he didn't recognize. Now that he noticed it, he kept coming back to it, fascinated but wary. It was as if he had lived in a house for years and finally noticed a door that had been there all along. Before he could decide whether or not to open it, he was asleep.
The next time Neal woke, it was more gradually. He had more of an awareness of his surroundings now. He remembered he was in a hospital after being given an overdose of Flashback. The sedative in the drug would have left him unconscious and then asleep for hours, according to the briefing Henry had given. "What time izzit?" he murmured.
"It's Friday night," said a woman. She sounded familiar. "Almost Saturday. Are you going to sleep the weekend away?"
He sighed and relaxed, but for once he didn't drift back to sleep again. He was too curious about who the woman was. He listened as she carried on a conversation with someone else in the room, and he feigned sleep so they would keep talking. As he listened he sorted through a series of vague and dreamlike memories of the last day, trying to decide which pieces were real.
Soon he was more awake than he'd been all day, and he kept coming to the same conclusion: these people in his room were his grandparents. At various times he'd spoken to them and even played poker with them, without truly understanding who they were. But he'd seen pictures of them over the last few years, had toured their home in D.C. with Henry a few months ago over the Christmas holidays while they were out of town, and now that he could think clearly he recognized them as Edmund and Irene Caffrey.
Now what did he do? Was he supposed to sit up, admit he didn't remember anything about them, and ask how they'd been doing for the last 20-some years? He didn't feel ready for that conversation. But unless he could really fall asleep, he didn't see how he could avoid it.
Whose bright idea had it been to leave him alone with these people?
It had to be Henry's fault.
He wished someone else would show up to take the focus away from him. Was there a way to get a doctor or nurse to come to his room? Neal considered trying a variation of a con he and Henry had perfected when he was 18. They'd go to a restaurant, order a meal they couldn't afford, and then as the dessert was being delivered one of them would pretend to suffer an instant, migraine-like headache. Not waiting to eat dessert was the master touch. It helped convince people they weren't faking illness to avoid the bill. And they'd made the act subtle, not yelling for help, but almost trying to hide the problem in the midst of a crowded restaurant. One of them would be hissing in pain and holding his head while the other pretended to search for medication they would discover had been left at their hotel. They tried to make it seem serious, but not so serious that someone would call for an ambulance. When they did it right, a good Samaritan would offer them a ride or would hail and pay for a taxi to their hotel. The restaurant bill would be forgotten in the concern for the sick boy and his anxious brother. If anyone mentioned the bill, usually a patron or the restaurant would promise that it was taken care of. A few restaurants had even sent them a get-well card in care of their hotel, with vouchers for a free meal.
It was easier to pull off the con with a partner, but Neal could do it on his own. If he convinced them he was in pain, they'd bring in someone to help. But that someone would probably administer a painkiller that would leave him out of it again, and he hated to give up his recently acquired mental clarity.
"You know, I've changed my mind," Edmund said. "I'll give the hospital coffee a try, if you're still willing to bring me a cup."
"Coffee snob," said Irene fondly. "I thought you'd nod off before you'd be willing to try it." Neal heard the tap of her heals as she left the room.
"You aren't outnumbered anymore, Neal. Will you stop playing possum?"
Surprised, Neal opened his eyes, winced and squinted as he adjusted to the light. He stretched and tried to sit up.
"Here." Edmund handed him the control that adjusted the bed from flat into a seated position.
When Neal was sitting upright he asked, "What gave me away?"
"You can't expect a grandfather to give up all of his secrets. How else am I going to keep up with the younger generation?"
Neal rubbed his eyes, and looking up toward the open doorway he thought he saw someone. Not someone he knew, and incongruous for being there this time of night and not wearing scrubs. He blinked and the person was gone. Male, he thought. Bald, but taller than Mozzie. Closer to Neal's height. He pushed back the blankets and started to slip out of bed.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Bathroom," said Neal. Edmund stood and Neal steadied himself against his grandfather's shoulder until he felt confident of his balance. The bathroom door was near the room's entrance, and looking into the hall he caught another glimpse of the stranger. He resembled the photo Neal had seen of Seamus Bickerton, the lawyer he was supposed to meet in Boston with the contents of Adler's safe.
The reminder of the case brought the same kind of clarity that working on a heist did on those rare occasions he was sick. Instead of meandering aimlessly, his mind came into laser focus. He suspected it couldn't last long against the drugs in his system. He had to act quickly to take advantage of it.
When Neal opened the bathroom door again, he had a plan. It started with insisting he wanted to sit in one of the room's chairs rather than returning to the bed. Then he asked, "Is it possible to get some food? I'm finally starting to feel hungry."
Edmund offered to find out, and that finally left Neal alone. He pulled his belongings from a shelf near the chair, putting on a pair of socks and sliding his cell phone into a pocket in his sweat pants. He yanked off the patient ID around his wrist and tossed it on the table. Then he walked to the door. To his surprise, he found himself face-to-face with his grandmother. They stared at each other a moment. Then he leaned in to whisper, "Tell Henry I'm missing," and slipped away with one of the cups of coffee she'd been holding.
He strode confidently in the direction of the waiting area, looking like a late-night visitor. But before he reached the exit he turned down a hallway, pulled out his phone, and dialed Bickerton's number. Peering around the corner, he saw the man pull out a vibrating phone. Neal ducked back down the hall and found an empty room. He closed the door and said, "Mr. Bickerton? This is Nick Halden. Sorry about missing our appointment today. Things got a little complicated at Enscombe. Can we reschedule?"
"I heard about yesterday's mishap, Mr. Caffrey. Having anticipated that you wouldn't be able to travel to Boston, I took it upon myself to come to New York. In fact, I've only recently arrived at the hospital to pay my respects."
"Very thoughtful of you. I don't have the items you wanted on me. They're stashed safely, though. I could meet you Saturday. Tell me what hotel you're staying at."
"That's really not necessary," Bickerton said. "I see you've slipped out of your room, but I'll wait for your return in the hallway right outside. Be back in three minutes, or I may have to inconvenience the lovely couple who have been with you tonight. Your grandparents, perhaps?"
Neal wasn't ready to get to know his grandparents. He certainly wasn't ready to endanger them. "Fooled you, huh? FBI babysitters. They're waiting to question me as soon as they realize I'm recovered. I've been acting sleepy and loopy all day, hoping for a chance to slip the leash." He gulped down a portion of the coffee, hoping to add caffeine to the adrenaline coursing through his system. He needed every advantage he could get.
Had his grandmother called Henry yet? How long till he would arrive?
"Then tell me where you are," Bickerton said. "We have things to discuss, and I prefer not to do it over the phone."
"I prefer a little more anonymity."
"How unfortunate for you. Two minutes to meet me face-to-face in the hall." Bickerton hung up.
Neal removed the lid from the coffee and took another gulp. His phone vibrated with a text message from Henry: "There in 10. If Hospital Game UR in trouble."
Neal texted back: "No game. Diversion in 1. Get family away from room." He hurried back down the hall, then turned the corner to walk casually toward his room. "Ok, Bickerton," he said as he approached the lawyer. "I thought you'd want more privacy than this, but here I am."
A nurse hushed them. Bickerton moved closer to Neal so that he could speak more softly and still be heard. "Thank you for being reasonable. You're right, this isn't an ideal location. All I ask is that you join me in my car for a brief discussion, and then I won't trouble you any further."
Neal heard voices from his room. Henry must have gotten the message and called their grandparents. He saw their grandmother peek out at him. Behind Bickerton's back, she waved and gave a thumbs up. "Sure," said Neal, turning in the direction that would take them to the elevators. He took a step and looked back. "You coming? It's this way." Gesturing broadly with his right hand, he spilled the remaining coffee all over Bickerton. Then he ran for it. With any luck, Bickerton would instinctively give chase, forgetting his threat against the occupants of Neal's room long enough for them to get away. Then if Bickerton returned to the room, he wouldn't have them as hostages.
Neal had studied a map of the floor on his excursion, and ran with a destination in mind: the staircase. He was good at running. The only sport he'd cared for in high school had been track, and he used that experience to outpace Bickerton now. He reached the door to the staircase at the perfect time, slipping through and letting the door close behind him. It had a pressurized system to ensure the door would open and close slowly; no banging to disturb patients. No way could Bickerton miss the sight of the door softly clicking into place. Sure enough, the lawyer pushed the door open, heard footsteps going up and pursued. When the lawyer was a floor above him, Neal slid out from behind the door. With luck Bickerton would be several flights up before he realized he was chasing a nurse who happened to be going up when Neal reached the door.
Heading to the elevators, Neal read the list of what could be found on each floor. He pressed down. In the elevator, Neal grinned as he recalled another time he'd gone running. Henry had been letting himself go when he first found Neal, and outrunning him had become a favorite hobby. Finally Henry had gotten into the habit of jogging with Neal in the mornings, and now he belonged to a gym. He was too competitive to let his cousin leave him in the dust. Making Henry stay in shape was the only favor Neal had been able to do in return for saving his life.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
There was nothing like a late-night call from a hospital to get your heart pumping. Henry tamped down the panic, and focused his energy on a determination to find Neal.
But exhausted from a few days of worry, he couldn't keep the panic from manifesting as anger. He found himself irrationally angry at Neal for getting into trouble. Again. Already. It's like Neal had two settings: asleep and in trouble.
Then there were the moments of blind rage at whoever wanted to kill Neal. Henry wasn't entirely sure what he'd do if he found the would-be-murderer. Sometimes he wished for a chance to be alone with that person to exact vengeance. Sometimes he hoped someone would be around to stop him.
And lastly were the flashes of guilt. He was mad at himself for letting Neal get into trouble. Mad at himself for being annoyed at Neal. Mad at himself for being jealous that Neal was the center of attention – and how irrational was that? Henry didn't want to have Neal's childhood issues or to experience an overdose of Flashback.
He shoved the anger deep inside with the panic and calmly asked his grandparents what had happened, and whether Neal had been loopy or clearheaded. He kept texting Neal, who seemed to be in his right mind but was having a little too much fun. But that was Neal for you. Too much boredom brought out his reckless side. And being confined to a hospital bed was admittedly boring. Based on what their grandparents had said, Neal probably wasn't aware of just how traumatic the last few days had been for his loved ones. No one had told him how close he'd come to dying, or that someone still wanted him dead.
"Henry?" Peter said.
Henry looked up from his text messages to see his grandparents and Peter watching him. There was concern in their expressions. As if they didn't have enough to worry about, now he was adding to their stress. A grin wasn't going to fool anyone this late in the game, so he didn't bother. "Neal's in the basement," he said, and started walking toward the elevators.
"We need a plan," Peter said, walking beside him.
"I have one." Henry described what he had in mind as they looked for a service elevator that would take them to the basement.
Neal had been on the move, finally agreeing to stay in one place when Henry had texted he was on his way. They found him in the hospital's laundry area, leaning against a stack of folded blankets while talking on his phone. "I'm not an idiot, Bickerton. I'm not meeting with you in your car. Do you think you're going to drive me someplace where I'll be outnumbered and at your mercy? I don't think so. Neutral ground or you can forget it." He muted the phone and looked up at Henry. "Is my room clear?"
Henry nodded. Even though Neal sounded impressively clearheaded, it couldn't last much longer. It had been 20 minutes since he'd sent that first text.
"Meet me back in my room," he said to Bickerton and then hung up before the lawyer could try to negotiate something else. He stood up. "Thanks. It'll be good to have backup for this."
Henry grabbed one of the blankets from the stack and put it around Neal's shoulders. It was warm in the laundry area, but would be cold once they left the room, and unlike Henry and Peter he wasn't wearing a coat.
Pumped up on adrenaline, an unnaturally elated Neal told them about seeing Bickerton and the subsequent chase, and didn't seem to notice that neither Henry nor Peter said much. It wasn't until they got off the elevator that he started paying attention. "Wait," he said as they turned toward the right. "This isn't my floor."
"We're taking a detour," said Peter.
Soon they were at the entrance of the chapel. Henry looked inside and asked, "Can you give us a minute?"
The only occupants of the room were their grandparents. "Are you alright?" Irene asked as she and Edmund walked toward them.
"Neal's fine," Henry promised.
"And you?" she asked.
"In a hurry."
"I'm going to tell your mother you've been sassing me," Irene warned. Then she and Edmund stepped out into the hallway.
Peter gave Neal a gentle push. "Make it fast." He followed with Henry and closed the door behind them.
"What are –" Neal started to ask.
"That's my shirt," Henry interrupted. "I need it back." He pulled off his coat and bright blue shirt. They were both wearing black sweatpants so only the shirts had to be swapped.
"What –" Neal tried again.
"Move it, Caffrey," Peter said. "Give him your shirt."
Henry hoped Peter's use of Neal's last name would emphasize Peter's role as boss and remind Neal of the need to do his job. Unfortunately Neal reacted obstinately instead. He dropped the blanket on the floor, and put his hands on his hips. "Forget it. This my case, my meet. I set it up. You're not going to impersonate me and take it over."
"In case you've forgotten, you're still hospitalized," said Peter. "You're not cleared for duty yet, and you've missed a lot of updates on the case."
Seeing Neal was about to protest again, Henry let loose some of his frustration. "Thursday you weren't breathing on your own, and that wasn't even the worst of it. I was there when your heart stopped. So forgive me if I think I'm more suited to working a case tonight." He grabbed the shirt that Neal was still wearing and pulled him forward to get in his face. "Now, kiddo!"
"Take it easy," Peter cautioned.
Henry let go and pulled out a packet of contact lenses.
Neal stared at him a moment, clearly processing the news that he hadn't simply been unconscious during his stay at Jacobi. Finally he yanked off the white t-shirt he'd been wearing and tossed it at Peter, who handed him the blue shirt.
With shirts exchanged and Henry wearing blue contact lenses, Neal said, "Shoes. He may remember I'm not wearing any."
"Got it," Henry said, toeing off his shoes and leaving them on a pew next to his coat.
Peter opened the door, letting Edmund and Irene back inside the chapel. Henry got close and patted his back. "Thanks," he said under his breath to the FBI agent. "He's a lot more reasonable when you're around. I'll meet you upstairs."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Still unhappy about being double-teamed, Neal watched that final exchange between Peter and Henry with suspicion. "What was that about?" he asked Peter as Henry walked out.
"Neal, I need you to stay here with your grandparents," Peter said. Then he snapped a cuff around Neal's right wrist.
The fact that he hadn't seen that coming gave Neal pause. Already he was losing his focus. "That isn't necessary," Neal said. But even as he protested, Peter put the other cuff around Irene's left wrist.
Peter turned to the Ambassador. "Please, sir, keep them in here. Henry warned me they're both equally volatile."
"Well, really," said Irene.
"Be careful, Peter," Neal warned. "Henry made off with your gun."
Peter reached for his weapon, came up empty, and ran after Henry.
Irene smiled guilelessly up at Neal. "I haven't had this much fun in ages, but we've reached Edmund's limit. He's going to make us stay here. Sit down with me, dear boy, and tell me all about what Henry and Peter are up to."
Neal sat beside her and eyed her handbag with interest. It might hold what he needed to get free. "Would you like to learn how to get these handcuffs off?"
Edmund pulled the bag out of their reach. "Behave yourselves," he ordered. "Neal, you owe us an explanation of this case we've found ourselves embroiled in. Tell me a story and then I'll decide if you're allowed out of those cuffs."
Irene patted Neal's arm. "Keep in mind he's Irish. He's a sucker for a good story."
Resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be joining Henry, Neal leaned back against the pew. No one could beat a con artist at spinning a yarn. "Well, it starts with a young sailor on a German U-boat filled with priceless treasure at the end of World War II." He yawned, feeling the adrenaline dissipate, and concentrated on making a fascinating story out of the parts the FBI would let him share.
A few minutes into the story, Irene said she was getting chilled and asked Edmund to hand her Henry's coat. She tucked it around both of them, although it seemed to Neal it was mostly over him. She leaned her head against Neal's shoulder, and somehow it seemed natural to lean his head against her. Before he knew it he was sliding into sleep, and wondering if he'd been double-teamed again.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Peter got to the room in time to hear Bickerton say, "That's right. I know where Meredith Bennett is hiding, and the name the Marshals gave her. If you don't want me to share that information with your father's enemies, you're going to come with me."
Henry was reaching for the gun he had "borrowed" when Peter made his presence known, announcing that Bickerton was under arrest. Peter held out his hand for the gun and gave Henry the look he remembered receiving from his own father, the calm expectation that his obviously reasonable request would be obeyed. But beneath that façade he hid grave doubts, because at the moment Henry seemed even more reckless and unpredictable than Neal. Peter was considering options for wresting the gun away when Henry finally handed it over.
The fact that Henry looked relieved gave Peter hope. Because it had been a close thing. If Henry had actually held Bickerton at gunpoint, Peter would have had to arrest him, too. Neal would probably be devastated if it came to that.
After the cops arrived and took Bickerton away, Peter studied Henry, who looked uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "What?" Henry asked.
"This isn't you, Henry. You aren't a killer."
"I wanted Bickerton to believe I was. I wanted him to think he was going to die, like Neal almost died."
"You're assuming Bickerton is behind this. What's his motive?"
"Money," said Henry.
"That implies someone is paying him. That makes him a pawn in this game. Neal isn't safe until we get Bickerton to tell us who's calling the shots."
"Bickerton works for Adler."
"He used to work for Adler," Peter corrected. "But if we think Adler wants to use Neal's skills, Adler isn't the one behind this. There's someone else behind the scenes, someone looking for Adler who stumbled across Bickerton and decided to use him. Probably blackmailed him into acting as a go between, on the threat that Bickerton's past association with Adler would be made known to the FBI if he didn't play along. Instead of going off half-cocked, we're going to keep our heads, think things through, and follow the trail back from Bickerton to the real threat. Are you with me on this?"
Henry nodded. "Let's go question Bickerton."
"No. He can stew in lockup for a while. We need to get some rest if we're going to be sharp enough to get the real answers to this case. Let's get Neal out of here."
"Check him out of the hospital?" Henry asked.
"The doctor said he could leave on Saturday. No disrespect to your grandparents, but given how bold our would-be-killer is getting, I want Neal in a more secure location with a guard who can take down the next threat. And who can stop Neal from running into trouble."
"That would be me."
Peter agreed. He thought the best way to keep Henry out of trouble was to keep him busy guarding Neal.
A/N: Thanks for reading! And the usual thanks to beta reader Silbrith for tolerating my writing and work angst over the last week.
The next chapter will be titled "Back to Work." Neal will be out of the hospital and certain he's ready to get back to work as usual. Of course it will be harder than he thinks, as he hasn't dealt with his returning memories.