Chapter 2: Calling in Markers

As Neal entered the art gallery on Broome Street, the wooden pipe continued to play a haunting melody in his head. The modal tune drowned out the voice of the man who approached him.

But he couldn't ignore the immense octopus lying in wait. Maroon tentacles the color of coagulated blood extended up the walls and deep into the gallery. The creature's yellow eyes glared malevolently at him, drawing him closer. The tip of one tentacle began to circle his throat, stopping him in his tracks. Another tentacle snaked around his chest and slowly squeezed the air out of his lungs.

"413 West 24th Street," the voice whispered. "Come to me, Neal."

The octopus and art gallery dissolved into muddy shades of red. When the murkiness cleared, he found himself standing on the ocean floor. Sea fronds as tall as giant redwoods surrounded him. Fish darted among the vegetation. His breath escaped in tiny bubbles.

Neal shuddered when a current of water shoved him forward. He knew that ahead lay torture and death, but he was unable to resist. The music writhed around his limbs, paralyzing them. A dim light shone in the distance, but the noxious green glow brought no comfort. The water smelled of decay and rotting corpses.

A shark crossed in front of him, severing the invisible chain dragging him forward. Neal darted behind a sea frond to hide but he sensed it would be a temporary reprieve. Already he could feel the current tugging at him. When something nudged his foot, he jumped. Looking down, he spotted a small pink octopus with bright turquoise eyes.

"Pearl, what are you doing here?" he whispered.

"Hiding, like you," she whispered back. "Stay with me. I'll keep you safe."

He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but a midget pink octopus wouldn't be much help. "Did you see the shark?"

"Oh, that's Bruce. You needn't worry about him. He's fish-friendly."

Nice, but Neal wasn't a fish. Pearl said something else, but he couldn't hear her. Where was Marlin when he needed him? Maybe Marlin had already been captured. This was Cthulhu's realm. Was Marlin even now being tortured? Didn't Neal need to let himself be drawn to the light? If he took Marlin's place, the clownfish might be set free and he could rejoin his wife. As long as Neal was going to die, wouldn't it be better to let his death accomplish something worthwhile?

Neal relaxed and let the current claim him.

"What are you doing?" Pearl squeaked, darting alongside him. "Don't give up! I have a plan."

"The current's too strong. I can't fight it."

"Ahead is Cthulhu's realm. He'll kill you!"

Neal attempted to cling to a clump of seaweed, but the fronds broke off under the force of the torrent. The underwater turbulence had caused a vortex to form. He was being sucked into it like water down a drain. The sound of the wooden pipe grew louder.

#

Peter arrived early at work on Thursday morning. The court case on the previous day had taken longer than expected. By the time he returned to the office, Diana and Jones had already departed for Boston. Neal had also left. Peter was tempted to fly up to Boston that evening, but he resisted the urge. Jones needed the experience. If Peter were transferred to another job, Jones was the natural candidate to replace him.

Yesterday, he'd left a stack of emails waiting to be answered. He planned to work on them in the morning, but he'd barely had time to fill his FBI mug with coffee when the first call of the day arrived. Any grumpiness on the disturbance vanished when he saw the name of Doctor Jacob Nussbaum on the display. During Neal's treatment last year, Peter and Jacob had become friends. Now that he was assisting on the Victor Liu case, Peter was grateful he'd already established a comfortable working relationship with him.

"I'm afraid I have bad news," Jacob said. "I received a call from London. Victor died this morning. Cardiac arrest is being listed as the provisional cause, awaiting a detailed autopsy."

Peter frowned. He'd hoped Liu would eventually be able to confirm Penfold's involvement. "Did the psychosis show any change before his death?"

"No, and it's been one of the most puzzling cases I've ever dealt with. The onset was so sudden that I'm convinced Victor had been programmed to have a psychotic response."

"Any idea what might have set him off?"

"My best guess is that it was something associated with being captured. For instance, it could have been the act of being placed in a cell. Up to the moment of his arrest, Victor exhibited no symptoms of psychological abnormality. Neal had been with him only a couple of hours earlier and hadn't noticed anything wrong. In the absence of any injury, I'm forced to conclude the involvement of a trigger." Jacob gave a dry chuckle. "Up to a few years ago, I—along with most other psychologists—believed that triggers were the stuff of science fiction. But like so many other techniques, what we once considered impossible has turned out to be achievable."

Peter didn't question his opinion. Jacob had become one of the world's leading authorities on mind-control procedures, including the virtual-reality programming Neal was subjected to. He was now serving as a consultant to the NSA and had given lectures at Quantico on the subject.

"Early on, you suspected the use of a trigger with Neal," Peter said. "The theft of the Vermeer painting of the astronomer was meant to cause a programmed response."

"Later we discovered a second trigger in the form of the Whistler painting had been used," Jacob agreed. "We were able to defuse Neal's response to the Vermeer but he had to fight off the effects of the Whistler on his own."

"Any thoughts on why Victor suffered a much more severe reaction?" Peter asked.

"No, and that's a concern," Jacob admitted. "Victor could have been unusually susceptible. If the programming attacked a pre-existing sensitivity, the response could have been more pronounced. I've been combing through reports on psychological manipulation. As our knowledge of brain functions increases, there's also a greater risk of abuse."

Peter's thoughts darkened. Neal had been damned lucky to escape without long-term damage. "Jacob, have you heard of Alice Langton? She's a professor of cognitive sciences at MIT."

"I'm quite familiar with her work," Jacob said promptly. "She lectured at a conference back in 2002 where I was also as a speaker. Lately she's specialized in how memories are processed by the brain."

"She's become a person of interest," Peter cautioned. "Victor took some of her courses. Even more worrying, we've found links tying her to Penfold. Could Langton's research have had a bearing on what happened to Victor?"

"Alice? In league with Penfold?" Jacob's obvious shock at the possibility made Peter even more suspicious. Whoever Cthulhu was, they would have crafted a perfect cover. An academic professor with no ties to any criminal activity would be just the type to appeal to Rolf.

"Her research would be helpful to anyone attempting the type of psychological manipulation we suspect Victor of having suffered," Jacob said. "Penfold was at that same conference four years ago. I don't remember her talking with him, but Penfold has been working in the field for over eight years."

"Possibly she was unaware of how Penfold was using her research," Peter cautioned. "Or she could be working hand in glove with him. A Bureau profiler will question her later today."

When Peter ended the call, he stood up and walked out to the balcony. Neal wasn't at his desk. Peter texted him to report to his office and returned to his email.

Before he'd gotten very far, Jones called with the welcome news that the initial warrant had enabled them to secure copies of Langton's phone records. Calls on her cell phone had been placed to Attica, New York. Not coincidentally that was where Rolf was incarcerated. He'd been in the supermax unit of the Attica Correctional Facility since his trial ended in February. Based on that additional evidence, Jones had been able to secure approval for Langton's electronics to be seized and her home searched.

By the time Peter rang off, an hour had passed, and there was still no sign of Neal. Peter knew he was spending his free moments working on a pigment analysis for Art Crimes D.C., but surely that didn't compare with this news.

He called Neal's cell phone and when he was switched to voicemail, he headed downstairs to tease him in person.

But Neal was nowhere to be found. There was no fedora on the bust of Socrates. When Peter checked the art niche, the workstation looked unoccupied. No half-drunk mug of coffee. No folders lying about.

Growing seriously worried, Peter had Darika ping Neal's GPS watch. The young tech had only been with White Collar for a year, but Travis thought highly of her ability. He'd selected her to replace him while he was on vacation.

"Sorry, sir, there's no signal," Darika said. "Do you know if the watch was tested recently?"

"Our watches were inspected in mid-June. Both were functioning normally." Travis was on vacation in Los Angeles. Jones and Diana would be in Boston for at least two more days. Peter reached for his cell phone.

#

"The last time I saw him was Wednesday morning," Henry explained. "He'd stayed overnight at my condo." When Peter called to check on Neal, Henry took off for White Collar. He could think of two possible culprits—Rolf or the enemies of Neal's father. And for the moment, he wouldn't place odds on who was more likely. The bullpen was a crime scene now.

Peter had introduced him to Darika. She'd already logged in on Neal's computer. Nothing suspicious in the emails. She was now going through the laborious process of retrieving the audio from the landline.

"I called June," Peter said. "She hadn't seen him since Tuesday evening when he'd returned home to pack a bag for your place. We found the bag in the men's locker room."

"You said Neal was at the morning team briefing then you all dispersed. Did anyone see him in the afternoon?"

"I only found one agent, Jorge Badillo. He saw Neal at the elevator bank around midday. Jorge asked him about his lunch plans, but Neal appeared distracted and didn't respond."

Darika looked up. "You'll want to hear this call. The log shows it was made yesterday at 12:14 p.m. I'll put it on speaker."

At the first sounds of the flute, Henry's heart sank. That melody was meant to reference Lovecraft, implying that Rolf was behind the message, either directly or through his partner.

Peter had Darika replay the call then asked her to make a copy for him. Jerking his head for Henry to follow him, he strode over to a vacant workstation. "Neal must have realized the connection to Lovecraft," he muttered. "I can think of only one reason he'd leave on his own without contacting anyone first. Am I missing something?"

Henry appreciated that Peter was giving him the chance to reveal another lead, perhaps someone Darika shouldn't know about, but there was no need for confidentiality. "I don't think so. Neal hasn't been engaged in any private agenda. Pickman is the name of a Lovecraft character, isn't it?"

Peter nodded. "Neal most likely wasn't acting under his own volition when he left the building . . . The phone call must have been a trigger." Peter slapped the surface of the desk in frustration. "Damn it, how could we have missed the signs? He's gone through therapy. Jacob pronounced him cured."

"The manipulation could have been buried so deep, it was undetectable," Henry pointed out. "I'm going with you to the address." He braced himself to argue the case if Peter resisted.

"I assumed you'd want to, and I appreciate it." Peter glanced around the bullpen. "As you can see we're short-handed right now." He turned toward Darika. "What's located at 499 Broome Street?"

"Pulling it up now . . . it's an art gallery. The name is Nova Terra." Darika scanned the display. "They specialize in avant-garde works."

Peter frowned. "This puts a different spin on it. Neal may be familiar with the place." He slowly shook his head. "But I don't how that would be relevant."

Any thought that the art gallery was an innocuous location was put to rest when they arrived at the site. A monster-sized octopus sprawled over roughly twenty feet of the showroom floor. The sculpture was so realistically painted, it looked alive. A vice squeezed Henry's chest when he thought about how it might have affected Neal. Did it trigger a phobia as strong as Victor's had been?

"Beautiful work, isn't it?" said a middle-aged man, stepping forward from the back of the gallery.

More like horrific nightmare.

"I'm Chester Rawlins, the gallery owner," the man continued, blithely unaware of Henry's churning emotions. "May I help you?"

Peter introduced himself, displaying his badge. "This is my associate Henry Winslow. We're here on official business." Peter pulled out a photo of Neal that Travis had taken at Neal's art exhibition in May. "Have you seen this man? He may have visited your gallery midday yesterday."

Rawlins studied the photo carefully. "I remember him. He only stayed for a minute or so. Like you, he was fascinated by the sculpture."

"Was he with anyone?" Peter asked.

"No, he was alone. I tried to talk with him but he ignored me and simply stared at the sculpture." The owner shrugged. "That's not uncommon. We pride ourselves on finding works that shock the viewer out of their comfortable existence."

"How long has the work been on display?" Peter asked, not commenting on his reply.

"Only since Monday. We've been trying to acquire it for a while. The piece was originally slated to be displayed last fall."

"Why did you postpone exhibiting it?" Henry asked.

"The sculptor sold the work. He later contacted us that the buyer offered to let it be displayed. The artist hoped to get additional commissions, and that's been the case. We've already obtained another order."

"I'll need the contact information for the sculptor, the buyer, and the other interested party," Peter said, keeping his voice calm despite the fury that had to be boiling inside him too.

"Of course, but I don't have the name of the first buyer. All my correspondence was conducted with the sculptor."

As soon as the owner left, Peter spun around to face Henry. "Is there something you haven't told me?" he demanded in an urgent whisper. "You turned white as a sheet when you saw the octopus. You didn't have the same reaction to the wooden pipe."

"Neal's been uncomfortable around squids and their kin for the past several months." Surely Neal had already told Peter. On the other hand, lately Neal's protective instincts toward Peter and El had been in overdrive. It was like he'd already assumed the role of uncle to Baby Burke even though the kid had yet to be conceived.

"We'd discussed it," Peter acknowledged. "I knew they were making him a little queasy."

Henry breathed easier at his words. Neal hadn't shut Peter out after all.

"We both thought it was because of all the references to Lovecraft, both by Rolf and at the workplace," Peter continued, his face hardening. "You think the creatures are the equivalent of Victor's spiders."

Henry nodded. "Neal and I even discussed it a couple of days ago. He said he wasn't experiencing any issues. We tested his belief by watching a movie featuring a kraken and he was fine afterward."

"And then he got the phone call."

"Exactly." Henry hesitated before voicing his fear aloud. "Neal could have amnesia, be lost in his head just like Victor."

"Jacob was so sure Neal was cured of the programming. But if a reaction was dependent on a trigger, I suppose Jacob might have missed it."

"I don't begin to understand how the procedure works," Henry admitted. "But here's another possibility. Penfold was in that Hungarian castle when Neal was held prisoner. He might have implanted the trigger then."

"Neal saw Jacob afterward," Peter pointed out.

"Yeah, but he wasn't exhibiting any symptoms. With nothing to work on, Jacob would have had a devil of a time finding it."

Peter rubbed his chin. "I'll alert NYPD. If Neal took a taxi, we may catch a lucky break."

"There's something else we can do—contact Mansfeld."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "So Rolf can gloat? Bad plan."

"Not Rolf," Henry explained. "Klaus. Neal believes his remorse is genuine. Maybe Mansfeld remembers some detail which could help us find him."

#

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Diana knew it was stupid. She was being irrational and selfish. She'd retreated into the women's locker room at the Boston office to get a grip on her out-of-control emotions.

Everything had been going so well, the small whining voice in her moaned. We were on top of the world when we found the Carta Marina in Langton's home.

That stolen map of sea monsters proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Langton was a criminal. The tech whizzes would search her electronics and undoubtedly find more evidence—proof that Langton was Rolf's not-so-silent partner. Proof that the professor had been at least partly responsible for Victor Liu's psychosis. Proof that she ran the Pod hacking ring. Perhaps even confirmation that Langton, not Rolf was the one behind the malware used to infect museum security systems.

Then came the call from Peter about Neal, and none of it seemed very important anymore.

Diana took a gulp of coffee to wash down the sour taste in her throat. Jones's attempt to convince her that the evidence they'd seized could provide the means of finding Neal was well-intentioned, but he couldn't dispel the conviction that she was at least partly responsible.

She glared at her coffee mug. The ceramic octopus smiled back at her. She'd brought it from New York as a good-luck charm. Now she wanted to smash that octopus against the wall and break it into a thousand pieces.

Diana looked up at the sound of footsteps.

"I've been searching for you," Tricia said, sitting down on the bench next to her.

Diana shrugged. Usually a witty rejoinder would have danced off her lips. "Do you have news?"

"Sorry, nothing's surfaced yet."

"Agents are on the streets," Diana said, trying to regain her composure. "Neal's quite memorable. Surely someone noticed him."

"They'll find him." Tricia's words of comfort carried little reassurance. "You don't have any reason to feel guilty."

"Why shouldn't I?" Diana blurted angrily. "I was the one fixated on tentacles. I played right into the enemy's hands. I should be charged as an accessory. Every time I mentioned octopus, I was reinforcing their scheme."

"You can't be certain of that. Yes, Neal was queasy around cephalopods, but that wasn't because of you. And he hid the symptoms so well, only Peter and Henry knew about it."

"And Sara," Diana added numbly. After Peter told Diana he'd contacted her, she called Sara to see how she was holding up.

"We knew we were playing with fire. Our stories were designed to provoke a reaction, and we achieved it." Tricia placed her hand on Diana's, forcing her to focus on what she was saying. "Monsters with tentacles are integral to Lovecraft. We could hardly have written about the Cthulhu Mythos without referencing them."

Kind of her to use "we" and "our," but Tricia couldn't absolve Diana from blame. Neal had even teased her about her octopus obsession. He'd given her an octopus writing hat. She wished she had it with her so she could rip it into shreds.

"Listen to me. Rolf has overplayed his hand. We've arrested Langton. Penfold's next, and this time we'll put him away so he never hurts anyone else."

Diana nodded, not willing to voice her doubts. They'd thought they'd captured everyone in Hungary, not realizing about Cthulhu. Penfold escaped within a matter of months. Rolf somehow managed to continue his operations from within solitary confinement. "Have you talked with Jacob?" she asked.

"Yes, and he's optimistic he'll be able to break through any walls in Neal's mind that Penfold has constructed. He believes the telephone recording will help him establish a connection."

"Travis is flying to New York," Diana said, attempting to present a calm exterior. "He'll arrive this afternoon. Aidan's offered to help decrypt the files. He'll work remotely from L.A."

"I'm glad to hear it. The files are undoubtedly encrypted in one of those esoteric programming languages Rolf enjoys so much. Or is it Langton?"

"You continue to think that she might have written the malware?"

Tricia nodded. "It's certainly possible. After Travis has had a look at her files, he should be able to tell us how probable it is. Does Langton resent Rolf for taking credit for her expertise? She won't want to admit that she's the one responsible, but she could have a difficult time avoiding it. Will she sacrifice Rolf in an attempt to save herself? We may not have to wait long for an answer. She's being processed this morning. I'll interview her shortly."

#

Tricia scanned her notes on Alice Langton one last time before entering the interrogation room at the Boston holding facility. Langton had been charged with the theft of the Carta Marina and with having masterminded cybercrimes in connection with the Pod hacking ring. Tricia would love to connect her to Neal's presumed abduction. But until her computer files were decrypted, the evidence connecting her to the Pod was razor-thin. If they tried to tack on additional charges, they could be laughed out of court.

Later in the day, Langton would appear before a judge where her lawyer would undoubtedly demand bail be set at a low figure. She'd probably get her wish. Langton's attorney, Miranda Brighton, was a capable, well-respected defense lawyer for white-collar crimes. Langton had no criminal record. She'd undoubtedly enter an innocent plea on all charges.

And as Tricia glanced through the one-way window next to the door, she had to admit that Langton certainly didn't look like a criminal. She was a vivacious professional woman who radiated confidence. Cracking that cool exterior would be a difficult challenge. Tricia hoped she wouldn't be the one left with egg on her face. Langton's lawyer appeared equally competent, dressed to kill in an exquisitely tailored suit.

Tricia took a deep breath and strode into the room. "Good afternoon. I'm Special Agent Tricia Wiese with the FBI."

"Ms. Langton has appointed me to represent her," said Brighton, introducing herself. "Alice and I are hopeful we'll be able to clear up this misunderstanding in short order."

"I look forward to your explanation," Tricia said, keeping her tone friendly for the moment.

"If I'd known the fuss I'd cause by buying the print, I can assure you I wouldn't have made the purchase," Langton said ruefully. "As I told the police I had no idea I was buying an original. Do you wish me to repeat the details?"

"If you wouldn't mind," Tricia said. She hoped there'd be discrepancies with Langton's initial account.

"I assume you've seen my receipt. It's from Plympton's, a bookstore near Harvard University. On April 12, I'd gone to the shop on Trowbridge Street to browse their used books. I found the framed print hanging on the wall. As you're well aware, I'm the faculty advisor for the MIT origami club. I thought the print would make an excellent remembrance of our recent sea creatures exhibition. You can tell from the low price I paid, that the bookstore was unaware it was an original."

"It goes without saying that my client is happy to return the map," Brighton added. "She explained in her initial statement that she'd heard about the map's theft. It's ludicrous to think Professor Langton would have knowingly flaunted a stolen item by hanging it prominently in the study of her house."

Tricia didn't waste her time by replying to the assertion. They suspected Langton had bought the copy as cover in case anyone discovered the original in her house. Unless they could find hard evidence tying Langton to the Pod, the suspect could continue to play the innocent card, and no jury would convict her. "Do you know Rolf Mansfeld?" Tricia asked instead.

Langton took a breath and wet her lips.

"You don't have to answer if you don't wish to," Brighton advised.

"I know, but that won't help me, will it?" Langton said bitterly. "I followed the news reports of Mansfeld's trial. As you probably already know, I'd worked with him when he taught at MIT eight years ago. He and I shared many common interests, particularly in the field of esoteric programming languages. I've enjoyed creating a couple, and he's also fascinated by them. Five years ago, I was distressed to read about his death. When I heard he was alive . . ." She shrugged helplessly. "Honestly, I didn't know what to think. The brilliant mathematician I thought I knew bears little resemblance to the criminal he was exposed to be."

"Then you didn't know he'd faked his death?"

"Not at the time, no."

It would be so easy to think of Langton as a colleague. She exuded sincerity and forthrightness, both in her eye contact and her body language. Had Rolf cast her as a scapegoat, or was she a superb con artist?

"Have you had any contact with Rolf Mansfeld during the past year?" Tricia asked.

Langton nodded. "After his capture, he wrote me, apologizing for letting me think he'd died. He said he'd suffered from a bout of severe depression, and at the time his best option appeared to be to withdraw from the world to—as he put it—cleanse his soul. He told me that after prolonged years of therapy, he didn't want to distress his family further and decided for their sakes it was better to start a new life."

"What explanation did he give for being in Hungary?" Tricia asked. The account Langton provided was similar to Rolf's strategy in court where he'd portrayed himself as having been misled by Ydrus into unwittingly committing illegal acts. The defense succeeded in clouding the issue for the stolen artworks, but Peter's testimony about Rolf's conversations with him in New York was damning proof of Rolf having spearheaded Neal's abduction.

"Rolf claimed he didn't know Ydrus was a criminal organization," Langton said. "He believed he was providing assistance to an import-export firm."

That also tallied with his defense strategy. "Has he contacted you from prison?"

"Through his lawyer. I told him that I preferred not to be approached. I didn't want to be tainted by any association with him." She chuckled bitterly. "Apparently, a futile effort."

"Did you know that Doctor Erasmus Penfold was working with Rolf Mansfeld?"

"I read the report that Doctor Penfold was also arrested, but there were no details in the paper. I'm familiar with Penfold's work. We've been speakers at the same conferences."

"Are you familiar with his use of virtual reality for psychological manipulation?" Tricia asked.

Langton looked at her warily. "I'm aware of his papers on its therapeutic applications, but that's not what you're talking about it, is it?"

"No, it's not. He's used the technique in an abusive manner on a consultant working for the FBI. We also believe he's responsible for the death of a former student of yours, Victor Liu."

"Victor?" Langton looked at her with such a horrified expression that either she was genuinely shocked or she was as good a con artist as Neal. "I knew about his psychosis. The police had questioned me about it, but they didn't provide any details on why they were investigating him."

"Victor is suspected of having worked for a group of cybercriminals known as the Pod. We believe them to be in league with Penfold and possibly also Rolf Mansfeld."

Langton swallowed hard as if she was trying to control a bout of nausea. "Victor was a gifted student. We'd become friends through his interest in origami. To hear that two of my former colleagues may have been involved in his death . . ." Her words trailed off into a moment's silence. "Anything I can do to help, I will."

Did she mean her words? Tricia wished she could believe her. Conceivably Langton could have run the Pod for Rolf but was unaware of the manipulation Penfold performed on Victor. She was in an ideal position to recruit talent. Some of the students might not have realized the illegality of the tasks they were being asked to carry out, at least at first. If that was true, Langton likely wouldn't confess to anything concerning the Pod until they had more evidence. But conceivably she wouldn't have the same scruples about the rogue doctor.

"Help us find Penfold," Tricia urged. "He was responsible for the death of your student. He's now gone after an FBI consultant who's not much older than Victor. Neal's a grad student at Columbia University in the fine arts program. Penfold has already subjected him once to brainwashing. We believe he's performed a second procedure. Penfold is abusing your research. Is there any way you can help us ensure he never manipulates anyone else?"

Notes: This story was inspired by an image I saw of a giant octopus in an art gallery. I've pinned it to the Pinterest board. That octopus had to be a signal from Azathoth, or was it Cthulhu? In Chapter 3, Peter and Henry meet with Klaus, but can they trust him? They may feel they have no choice.