I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. It was also supposed to be the last. But alas it's not... Almost... But not yet. If you're still along for the ride, thank you.
"Wait a minute- He did what?" Peter demanded, unable to hide his disbelief.
Jones sighed over the phone line. "I had a feeling you might have that reaction," he replied slowly. Almost cautiously. "And I'm pretty sure that's a rhetorical question."
Peter rubbed at his jaw in exasperation, feeling the start of stubble and digesting the update that Jones had just provided him. He found himself unable to immediately respond. He stood in his kitchen, staring at at a crack in the tile floor.
After a moment, Jones cleared his throat. "Sir?"
"Sorry. Still processing," Peter told his agent. He then paused again, the chaotic thoughts flying through his head interfering with his usual ability to process information. He leaned against his kitchen countertop, suddenly feeling the need to have some sense of support, whether it was an inanimate object or not.
He felt increasingly stressed and exhausted.
Jones spoke gently. "I know this probably isn't the kind of update that you were hoping for…" he acknowledged.
"Not at all. Jesus..." Peter muttered. He closed his eyes. "You know, Jones, I feel like every time you call me, you deliver some kind of increasingly crazy news about what he's doing."
"Well... What can I say? I agree it's increasingly crazy, but I'm just trying to keep you up to speed. Would you rather I not tell you?"
"No, no," Peter replied, shaking his head. "I don't mean it that way. I appreciate the updates, and I need to know. I just can't believe what he's doing... It's over the top even for him."
"Well, believe it," Jones replied. "And if you don't and need some proof, there actually might be a video feed from the MTA that's coming in. We connected with them a few minutes ago."
"Oh, no, that's more than okay," Peter objected. "I absolutely do not need to see that. The mental image is more than enough." He reopened his eyes with an exasperated breath. "And unfortunately I do believe it." He heard a noise inside and turned his head to take a look beyond his kitchen.
Elizabeth, who had come downstairs right before Jones called, was standing at their dining room table. In front of her on the table's surface was Peter's laptop, which had her full attention. On its screen played a video that Peter knew all too well at this point. She was watching the surveillance recording of Neal leaving the hotel.
Her opinion of the video was obvious as she watched silently with a hand over her mouth.
She was clearly equally as shocked as Peter had been when he first watched it. Maybe more shocked. After all, she hadn't been as exposed to Neal's previous self-endangering acts like he had been. She may have heard about some of his antics after the fact, but never had been witness.
He watched her silently with his phone stationary at his ear. He wanted to tell her to turn off the video or to even shut down the laptop completely, but he was frozen. Observing her watch the footage brought back the same dread he felt when he originally viewed the surveillance footage himself, and it left him momentarily speechless.
"They're actually pretty sure they'll locate him soon," Jones was saying over the phone, unaware of Peter's current distraction. "Believe it or not, they're somewhat confident. That train line is being held in both directions, and there's only so many places he can go from there."
"They're confident?" Peter replied. He worked his jaw, simultaneously amused and frustrated by the statement that someone thought it would be that easy to get Neal. If it were that easy, they'd already have him in custody. "And tell me this, Jones. Who is they?"
"I hear your skepticism. And I get it, but even our guys think so after talking to the MTA," Jones replied. "The Marshals too. And believe it or not, they're all working together on this."
"Well, as great as the cross-jurisdictional engagement sounds, I just think they're really underestimating him," Peter answered. "Clearly Neal's not going to make it that easy. He's risking his life here to get away. If they couldn't get him when he was cornered at the dead end of a hallway, then getting him out in the streets isn't going to be any easier."
"I hear you, Boss, but it's not like he can walk through walls," Jones replied. "Or teleport."
"Teleport," Peter echoed sarcastically.
"You know what I mean. I'd say his options are limited. Especially since he entered the transit system."
"Limited but not unavailable," Peter replied. "And honestly if he suddenly teleported, somehow I wouldn't exactly be surprised."
"Well, that would be something..." Jones replied sarcastically. "And I hear you on his skills, Peter, but I don't think that teleportation will be the next update I'll be calling with."
Peter wasn't so sure, but didn't voice his frustration. Jones was just the messenger here. If others were so confident, let them be. But Peter knew from first hand experience how challenging it was to catch Neal. When he was motivated, he could be nearly untouchable. "Well, whether or not it is, Jones, I appreciate the updates. Anything else I should know about?"
Jones paused on the other end of the line, and then cleared his throat. There was clearly something else, and he was very obviously taking his time to respond to the question. The silence was evident.
"Jones," Peter said firmly. He now dreaded the response but asked again. "Anything else?"
"Uh, actually… Yeah. There is just one more thing," Jones acknowledged slowly.
"Yeah?" Peter raised an eyebrow, leaning harder into his countertop. While his quizzical expression was directed at the agent that couldn't see him on the other end of the phone line, the sentiment was equally applicable to his wife, who was at the moment clearly replaying the surveillance video again from the beginning. He squinted at the laptop in front of her in disbelief.
"Well, Hughes knew I was going to call you..." Jones explained. "We actually just had a team meeting a few minutes before. And he told me to mention something."
"Something like what...?"
"He said if you happen to check your email, not to be concerned, and to tell you that they are just, quote, going by the book." Jones paused. "And before you ask - I have no idea what he meant by that. That's all he said."
Peter could feel himself frowning as the pit in his stomach returned upon hearing the cryptic messaging. That all too familiar sinking feeling was back in full force. Had it ever left?
"Alright," was all he responded. There was no emotion to the word.
Jones couldn't hide his curiosity. "So you don't know what it means either?"
"...Not yet," Peter replied honestly.
"Who's 'they'?"
"I also don't know that," Peter returned, a bit stiffly.
"Okay... Well that was it." Jones paused for a moment. He then added, "I've got to go check-in with Diana, but I'll call you back if there are any other updates."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
Peter ended the call with a sigh and set his phone down on the counter.
Jones' words, a message originally conveyed by Hughes, repeated in his head for a moment.
Don't be concerned. They are just going by the book…
That could mean anything. But he was well aware of the optics regarding everything that had happened the last couple of days. From an outsider looking in, there were a ton of red flags in how he had been managing Neal. He knew that.
He snapped out of it and refocused himself. Back to reality. He looked across the room to again view his wife.
"El, come on. Stop watching that," he told her sternly as he pushed away from the kitchen counter to slowly move across the room and approach her. The surveillance video of Neal's great escape was replaying yet again on the laptop screen. "Once is enough. Twice is absurd. And three times is really making me question you."
"It's hard not to watch," she replied numbly. She turned her head from the screen to meet his eye. "How is this real? It's like a TV show."
"You don't even want to know what he's done since then," Peter replied dryly as he reached the table. He extended his hand to get a hold of the laptop, sliding it over closer to him and turning it so the screen faced him alone.
"What do you mean?" she asked, brow furrowing. She crossed her arms over her chest, perplexed. "What could possibly be next?"
Distracted, Peter didn't answer right away. He closed the video player by clicking on the 'x' in the corner of the application. Once that program disappeared, his email program was once again in the forefront of the screen.
While the email from Jones was highlighted as his most recent viewed, a number of new messages had come in since time had passed.
He quickly, and anxiously, scanned the newest messages and scrolled upwards in his inbox.
The one at the top of the list immediately caught his eye. He read the 'from' and the 'subject' and felt that sinking feeling exacerbate. He muttered under his breath.
"What is it?" Elizabeth asked, observing his demeanor with concern.
He stared at the laptop screen, silent.
"Peter?" she persisted. Her tone was gentle, yet prodded.
"Internal Affairs," Peter replied. His hand hovered above the trackpad of the laptop, considering whether or not to open the email. It was tempting, but there was also some comfort in the content remaining unknown. "Notification of an official investigation," he read the subject line. "I can only guess what that's about."
She didn't answer immediately, and instead took a step closer to him. She slowly slid her hand into his, intertwining their fingers. "Whatever it is, Hon, we'll get through this together. You did nothing wrong."
The words, simple enough, were thoughtful but didn't quell his anxiety. He appreciated the sentiment, but couldn't help feeling overwhelmed.
He continued to stare at the laptop screen – the subject line was taunting him.
These emails weren't going to help him. Not now. He made an executive decision to ignore it for the time being, despite his fingers itching to open the message and read its contents.
"I'm not going to worry about it now," he replied definitively, squeezing her hand back, even though he was very much worried about it. "It can wait."
She nodded, approving the decision, though she cast a doubtful look towards the laptop screen herself.
Internal Affairs.
Official Investigation.
Peter reached out and closed its lid. That was the end of that.
At least for now.
The subway tunnels were dark, damp, and wet. Neal had never experienced an escape like this before.
He had run from authority more times than he could count and in many diverse locations and terrains, but this underground experience through the transit tunnels was admittedly a new one.
He was running blind here, with no experience to lean on. There was no technology and no contact with the outside world. It was just him and his instinct. His options were limited.
As for the tunnels themselves, the only strict rule he knew was 'avoid the third rail.' There wasn't much else. It was his first time down here outside the confines of an actual transit car.
His initial thought was whether there would be any oncoming trains; however, with no headlights in sight, and a series of red signal lights further down the track in the distance, he was fairly certain the police had alerted the MTA and that trains would be held.
That was somewhat unfortunate. He hadn't actually feared the oncoming train, but had seen it as an opportunity. Being in the way of the train wasn't an issue, as the tunnel had pockets built in every few feet along the tracks where someone could safely step aside from an oncoming train. He had seen transit workers use these many times while there was track maintenance on nights and weekends. He had hoped that if a train did come that he could actually discretely board it and get an expedited trip out of here.
It seemed that would not be an available choice.
And it wasn't an option because they were shutting down his options. They had the underground blueprints and controlled the system. He did not.
There were limited entrances and exits. And he was certain the two stations he was now between were manned with law enforcement. If the farther one wasn't yet, it would be soon. He knew on average there were roughly five blocks or so between stations. Even if he ran, they'd be there before him, waiting for his arrival.
Other connections to the tunnels were usually exceptions to accommodate gas, electric, and other utility lines.
As Neal made his way down the tunnel, stepping around puddles and debris, he knew he was going to have to make use of one of those exceptions.
And that's why when he saw the narrow, metal ladder appear on the wall ahead of him, rising upwards to some alternative destination, he knew he had to take it, no matter where it went.
He didn't have time to see if there would be any other options ahead.
Naively, for a while Mozzie was convinced that he'd be the one to finally locate Neal. Given he was already in contact with him once already, it just seemed natural that he would be the one to figure out where he was.
Engaging so much with Peter had been a slight act of desperation. As much as he hated compromising himself with such extensive federal agent contact, he would also do anything to make sure his friend was okay.
Still, he hoped that the federal angle was only an extra contingency plan and not something he'd need to lean on too much. After all, he and Neal had plans in place for dire situations like this. Not exact plans, since the exact situation was never known, but they at least had some premeditated structure in place when it came to resources.
Mozzie was hopeful that this was how he would find Neal.
But it was soon obvious that none of those resources had been touched.
Mozzie knew he should have remained guarded and skeptical throughout this ordeal, but the brief contact with Neal had gotten him uncharacteristically optimistic.
Even the safe house, which he'd been certain Neal might head to, was untouched.
That left Mozzie without much else to go on. Despite his extensive network, with no clues of where to start, he felt like he was at a dead end.
He had to continue to do something, so Mozzie resigned himself to focusing on the security system of the hotel. He'd been making significant progress at the point in time that Neal had called him. He now put all his energy into that effort.
It was something the FBI might do themselves at some point, but likely much more slowly. With extensive paperwork, red tape, and warrants, and then finally upon approval outsourcing the task to the appropriate tech department, Mozzie knew this was one area where he could get a head start.
Once he was in their network again, he focused on the security cameras. There were two main locations he wanted to scout. One was the room that Samantha had been in. He knew the cameras had been covered, but he had a strong suspicion that the media might still be useful.
Next was the parking garage.
It was easy enough to access the security camera feeds – it was by no means an advanced security system and fortunately for him most of the settings had been left on their default configuration.
The initial problem was narrowing down the cameras from which he wanted footage. The hotel had nearly fifty cameras, and they were simply numerically ordered.
He went one by one, essentially looking at a live feed first to gauge which camera it was before moving onto the next.
Lobby, bar, hallway, gym, another hallway…
It was tedious, but he continued to go one by one.
There wasn't even a logical order to the feeds. As he went consecutively by their numbering system, the footage jumped to and from various floors. Every few cameras and he'd suddenly be back at the lobby again, with footage from a different angle.
It was going to take a while but he was determined to keep at it.
It was getting late.
And Peter's anxiety rose as it got later in the day.
The sun setting seemed to signal failure. Earlier in the day, in the private confines of his mind, he continued to tell himself that things would surely be resolved by the 'end' of the day. He had no basis for that assertion, other than a desperate hope that it would be true. A hope that was starting to look pathetic and unachievable. At one point the end of the day seemed far enough away that it was plausible. As the hours ticked by, reality set in.
To make matters worse, as time passed, the news seemed to grow more dire.
Samantha's testimony was making its rounds. Peter revisited the transcript that had been sent to him periodically, feeling a mix of anger and uncertainty. Reading the words on a page, formally documented, somehow felt like more of a condemnation than the video of her interview.
A few people had reached out to him regarding her accusations – he was trying to ignore the attention so far.
The looming Internal Affairs email weighed heavily on him also. It sat, so far unread, in his inbox, taunting him. He was certain he knew what it was about, but actually opening it, actually reading it, even looking at it further would only formalize that process and make it more real.
And it only got worse from there.
Diana called him to provide a further update. Prints were back from the knife found at the scene. It was a quicker than usual forensics turnaround given the priority of the case.
The report confirmed that only one set of prints was identified.
Neal's.
Of course it was Neal's.
The testimony, the prints… Cold hard evidence now.
It was looking ugly.
Peter wasn't sure what to do. He knew this reflected on him, and that his badge was on the line. Yet he still had a desire to help Neal. He knew Neal hadn't done any of this, yet words and evidence were powerful.
On paper, Samantha was a clear victim here. They had sought her out in order to get her assistance on the case. Critics would go so far as to say they used her as a pawn, a cat and mouse situation with their suspect, and that they gave in to play his game. She had been caught in the crossfire. Regardless of all that, her current allegations were against Neal. That he had used his case involvement to his advantage, manipulating the chain of events so that he could do what he did best. He somehow organized this whole thing to get her to unveil her family's estate so that he could perform a legendary heist.
It was far from the truth. It was painfully clear to Peter now that the despite the rundown of the clock and the ultimatums that were threatened, Dean had already gotten what he wanted. He didn't need a reconnection with Samantha. Everything that Samantha was accusing Neal of, Dean had actually done. Everything else had been a manipulation. To get them exactly where he wanted them. Neal wasn't the co-conspirer. Samantha was.
But all evidence currently said otherwise at the moment.
And he had no means to refute it. Not with Neal missing in action and evidence piling up that contradicted all of his assertions.
"Penny for your thoughts," Elizabeth said casually.
He glanced over to where his wife sat on the other end of the couch a few feet from him. She raised her eyebrows at him.
"Not worth it. You'd want a refund," he replied sarcastically. At her unamused look, he then shook his head. "I'm sorry, El. I'm kind of lost in my thoughts here."
"No kidding." She sighed. "I thought this," she gestured to the television where the local news was on the screen, "would be a slight distraction."
He glanced only briefly at the screen where a reporter was discussing a stabbing at a neighborhood bodega in another part of Brooklyn. He frowned at the headline and looked away. "Unfortunately, the reality of crime in the city isn't enough to distract me."
She paused and then asked, "Then what can distract you?" she paused, as though thinking. "Do you want to eat something maybe?"
"Not really…" he answered distractedly, but then thinking better of his dismissive answer looked her way again. "Do you?"
"I honestly don't have much of an appetite either," she replied. "But, Peter… You can't just drown in your thoughts."
"I'm not sure what else to do at this point."
"I don't know either," she admitted. "But there has to be something."
Peter made a face. He really didn't know. His attention then shifted to the laptop on the coffee table in front of him. It seemed like the laptop was following him around the house. "Maybe I could go through the notes and files I have again. See if there is anything I missed."
"Sure," she replied. "Maybe." Though the answer was complacent, she didn't seem thrilled with the idea.
Meanwhile, Peter made no effort to even reach for the laptop.
A beat passed and then she slowly started to get up. "Alright. Maybe I'll make something after all. We have some leftovers, and I can just reheat it. We should both eat."
He raised his eyebrows, watching her. "If you want. I'm really not hungry," he told her.
She gave him a look. "Well, I need something to do too," she answered, shrugging her shoulders. With that she turned away and walked across the room towards the kitchen.
Peter sighed. This wasn't ideal for either of them. They were almost hostages in their own home.
The news buzzed on the television in front of him, and he stared at the image on the screen despondently. It was now the weather forecast. He could hear the sound of the refrigerator opening on the other side of the house. A moment later, he heard the familiar beeps of the microwave touchscreen.
Soon he would smell the leftovers. He had no recollection of what type of food it would be.
His mind returned to the case.
The statement of Samantha.
The missing artwork.
The fingerprints on the knife.
The Internal Affairs investigation.
The topics bounced around in his head like a game of pong.
He was thinking this, morosely, when he suddenly heard a noise at the back door of the house. It startled him. Uncharacteristically, Satchmo barked towards the back door as well, alert but hiding by their dining room table.
"Peter?" El called uncertainly from the kitchen. She had clearly heard it as well.
Peter was already on his feet, moving. His eyes were locked on the backdoor, where he could see the doorknob turning, left and right with limited movement due to the fact it was locked. But the tiny movement was almost frantic. The knob rattled against the door frame.
He looked over to El in the kitchen. Her eyes were wide and also focused on the door.
"Hon, go upstairs," he told her firmly. His voice was calm though he felt anything but. "Now please."
She looked at him uncertainly. Behind her the microwave hummed, a dish slowly spinning inside of it.
"Go," he persisted. "Please."
She nodded silently, looking hesitant to leave him, but also understanding that he needed her to be out of the way.
Once she was out of the vicinity of the backdoor, Peter approached it slowly. The knob was actually turning now, back and forth in full range, and he realized it had been unlocked. The only thing holding the door back was the deadbolt a few inches above the knob that was locked from the inside.
Peter took a deep breath, and as he got closer, whoever was behind the door began to knock, an insistent thump as though with a fist.
"Peter," he heard through the door.
An urgency in the voice. A familiar voice that it couldn't be.
But it was.
Hesitation gone, Peter reached for the door's deadbolt, turning it with haste. Before he could redirect his hand down fast enough to turn the doorknob, the door was already opening.
"Neal," he breathed out in disbelief as the figure appeared in front of him in the darkness at his doorstep.
There he was in the flesh.
From out of no where.
How was it even possible?
"You came here," Peter stated in disbelief. "What—"
"Since when do you lock the top one?" Neal demanded, voice accusing. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled, hair mussed and clothing appearing wet and stained. There was an almost feral look in his eyes – the deep blue color conveyed a sense of wildness yet also looked completely lost at the same time. He looked… desperate.
"Neal," Peter began.
"Freeze!" came the sudden shout from the back of his property before he could get out any further words. "Put your hands up!"
Peter looked past Neal to the darkness of his small yard, where he could now see a few flashlights at the corner pointed towards them, approaching quickly. Five of them. The silhouettes of men were becoming more clear.
Neal was ignoring the instructions, not even looking in their direction, instead forcefully maneuvering past Peter into the house.
Completely caught off guard, Peter let Neal pass him and then looked back out into his yard. He stepped forward into his doorway, lifting his arms to brace his hands against the frame of the door. His ribs ached as he did so.
He could tell two things right away about the people in his yard: they were US Marshals, and they were armed and aiming.
"Burke!" one of the agents called out.
"Stand down," Peter requested. He stepped out of his doorway, onto his back step and showed his hands up in good faith. "No one here is armed."
"Burke," the agent persisted, stepping a few feet forward, weapon still aimed. "You should know that the person that just entered your home is a federal fugitive."
"No one here is armed," Peter repeated stiffly.
"Armed or not," the agent replied. "You have a fugitive in your home."
"Stand. Down." Peter repeated each word individually, forcefully.
The agent paused, but then he slowly lowered his weapon. With a quick but authoritative hand gesture the men behind him did the same. The flashlights remained on, shining towards Peter's house.
Peter glanced behind him quickly. He could see Neal, in his living room, pacing. His hands were interlocked behind his head, and he looked unsettled.
Turning back to the Marshals, Peter kept his voice calm. "He's our informant," he told them. "We will handle this from here."
"No," the same man responded stiffly. "You won't. This is our jurisdiction now."
Peter glared. "There are allegations," he admitted, "I know that. But-"
"He's a fugitive," the man replied stiffly.
Peter sighed, a long exhale. "Listen…"
"No," the man persisted. He took a few steps forward. "With all due respect, Burke, the Bureau has already agreed to our jurisdiction here, and my understanding is that you're currently on a leave of absence."
Peter bristled at the statement.
"Now we can do this the easy way, or the hard way," the Marshal continued. "But I warn you that you're currently obstructing our orders."
Peter stared at them. The five of them. In his backyard. He could only imagine the attention of the neighbors right now. Armed agents at his house.
"We have agents in the front as well," the man persisted. "I know he's your CI, but let's be smart about this."
Peter racked his brain, trying to find an argument. Minutes before this, all the evidence against Neal had been playing through his mind. He knew he was at a wall here.
"It's him," the Marshal said, "or the both of you. That's the only choice. We're just following the law."
Peter knew he was right. There was no other way. Not right now. He wanted to fight it, but on what stance. If he disagreed, he would literally be harboring a fugitive. They would knock in his doors instantly. He would be going to jail as well.
"Give me five minutes," he told him.
The Marshal looked uncertain. "We—"
"Five minutes," Peter repeated stiffly, narrowing his eyes. "You've been camped out here for hours. What's another five minutes?"
He received a heavy stare in return, but then a unamused nod. "Fine. Five minutes. No more."
Peter didn't waste any time. He stepped back into his house, immediately swinging the door shut firmly as he did so. It slammed closed into its frame as he took long strides across the room to where Neal was still pacing.
Neal turned at the sound of the door shutting, startled by the noise. His arms dropped to his side, and he stood as though frozen in place.
"Peter," he began.
Peter reached him as his name was spoken. Without saying anything, he took Neal by the arm and pulled him towards him abruptly, enveloping him in a tight hug.
Neal immediately stiffened under his hold, the embrace unexpected. "I didn't do it," he blurted out.
"I know," Peter told him.
"I didn't do any of it," Neal declared, beginning to pull away. "Whatever they said –"
"I know," Peter interjected, emphasizing the words. "You need to listen to me," he continued, not letting him pull away. Instead he held him tighter, speaking directly into his ear.
"I heard them," Neal persisted bitterly. "What they called me. Fugitive." He said the word derisively. "I shouldn't have come here."
"Listen," Peter coaxed more insistently. Neal was radiating anxiety and uncertainty. Peter felt the same way himself, but knew he had to be the voice of reason here. Things were out of control. "Calm down."
"I can't."
"Try." Peter paused and then sighed. "I'm glad you came here, Neal. But you're not going to like what I'm about to say."
"But," Neal repeated dryly with a hint of suspicion. He pulled back from his handler, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "There's always a but. I knew it. I shouldn't have come here." He again tried to pull away.
"Hold on," Peter chided. He let him take a step back but retained a grip, holding him tightly by his arms. "Neal…" he said firmly. "I didn't think you'd come here." He looked him up and down critically and then lifted one hand off his sleeve, staring at his palm and the residue that remained. He looked back at Neal's face. "Why are you so sticky?"
"I shouldn't have come here," Neal answered, ignoring the question. There was remorse in his tone. His eyes darted towards the windows and the front door. "What do we do now?"
"You should have come here," Peter asserted. "You did the right thing."
"But," Neal persisted. He raised his eyebrows. "But." He gestured to the front of the house, and then the back. "Now what?"
"I'm going to call Hughes," Peter told him. "Right now. If you'll let me. But I'm not sure there is much we can do right now."
"So that it?" Neal replied. "I'm a fugitive?"
"I didn't say that."
"They said it."
"Neal."
"I came here because I thought you'd believe me," Neal began. "That you'd help me."
"I will help you," Peter responded firmly. "And I do believe you." He let go of Neal and walked towards the coffee table, going towards his phone. "I know they're framing you."
"Mozzie said your hands were tied," Neal said, sounding more and more disheartened. "I should have known better." He began to walk towards to the front door.
"Stop saying that," Peter replied. He grabbed his phone and then turned to see Neal's movement. "Neal!" he snapped as he saw him approach the door.
Neal turned, eyeing Peter with a look of desperation.
"They are waiting for you," Peter told him. "Front and back. Just hold on."
Neal stopped, but it appeared unwilling. Still, he stalked away from the door, heading back towards the dining room, hands on his head, pulling at his hair anxiously.
Peter had already dialed Hughes, and he had the phone to his ear.
His boss answered on the second ring, and not with the greeting that Peter expected.
"Peter," Hughes said as the ring cut out. "Let him go."
"What?" Peter replied into the phone incredulously. "Sir?" He kept his eyes on Neal, nervous that the other man would run out of the house at any second. At the moment Neal had found Satchmo, and was crouching down on the floor in front of the dog, his fingers combing through his fur. Satcho was leaning into Neal, as though sensing his need for support.
"They already called me," Hughes said. "You have no choice, Peter."
"Can't you –"
"No. I can't. And I won't.."
Peter exhaled, feeling undermined yet determined. "Our authority," he persisted, as though he was telling the senior agent something he didn't know, "should allow us to—"
"No," Hughes repeated, sighing himself. "Honestly, Peter… Whether it's us or them, he's got to be brought in. Now. I know how you feel, but you've got to understand what every piece of evidence is suggesting right now."
"Sir…"
"Do you want to be the one to bring him in?"
Peter fell silent, unable to answer that question. Bring Neal in. When he knew Neal was innocent.
"That's what I thought," Hughes replied. "Listen, Peter. It's either them bringing him in, or bringing both of you in for your obstruction. You know you're in a gray area right now yourself, with the investigation and everything."
"Investigation…"
"Did you read the email?"
"No," Peter admitted.
"Probably better you didn't," Hughes acknowledged.
"So what, that's it?" Peter demanded. He watched Neal with his dog. Satchmo had rolled over at this point, and Neal was rubbing his belly. Peter turned away, closing his eyes, trying to figure out an alternative.
"That's it," Hughes replied sternly. "Say what you need to say to him, Peter. But until we can prove otherwise, he's the main suspect here."
"What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"
"Peter..." Hughes replied warningly. "Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be. He's been on the run. You've got federal, state, and city officials that have been burning resources to locate him. I don't need a fight with the Marshals tonight, Peter, and neither do you."
"He came here," Peter said stiffly, "because he thought I could help him. Because he's innocent."
"Be objective," Hughes told him sternly. "Unless you have something that refutes every piece of evidence that was submitted today, then you only have one option, Peter."
Peter was silent again.
"I know you don't like it," Hughes told him. "Neither do I. But we have to follow the procedure here."
Peter knew that Hughes was right. Even though he wanted there to be some sort of loophole or exception. There wasn't one.
"I'll need access to him tomorrow," Peter said gruffly. "I'm going to need to –"
"You have my support," Hughes answered, cutting him off. "And we'll talk about it tomorrow. Just handle this tonight, Peter."
The call ended, and yet Peter continued to hold the device to his ear, as though he would magically hear a different answer. However, he knew time was soon up, and so he resignedly tucked the phone into his pocket, feeling a sinking feeling in his gut.
This was not what he expected.. Not at all. He never expected Neal to walk in here tonight, and didn't ever consider the fact that if he did, it would be a shortlived reunion.
"Neal," he said, turning back around.
Neal didn't respond. He remained focused on Satchmo, his head bowed. Peter couldn't see his expression.
"Neal," Peter repeated, beginning to walk towards him.
"I shouldn't have come here," Neal told Satchmo.
"Neal, do you trust me?" Peter began.
"I did," Neal answered curtly.
The past tense hit Peter like a physical blow. How was he supposed to respond to that? How was he supposed to explain to Neal that tonight his badge was worthless? That he couldn't protect him?
Neal looked up then, a deeply brooding look on his face. "Front and back?"
Peter paused in his approach, standing a couple feet away. He digested Neal's question. At the same time, he knew his five minutes had to be up soon. "Yes," he said. "Don't even think about it."
Neal grunted, remaining crouched on the ground on his haunches. He ducked his head again, continuing to pet Satchmo.
Peter took another step towards him.
"I don't know why I came." The statement, repeated again, as thought it would change something. Neal cleared his throat, and then cast another look up to to Peter, brow furrowing at first for a moment as though deep in thought, but then giving a small smile, lips spreading to reveal his teeth. "Do you even know what I did to get here?"
"Scaling buildings?" Peter replied with raised eyebrows. "Jumping in front of a train?"
Neal's smile subsided, realizing Peter did know. His broodiness returned. "There was no train," he told Peter, tone flat. He then turned his head back to the dog.
A pounding knock came to the back door, interrupting, and they both turned their heads.
"There's always the roof," Neal offered bluntly, rushed words but with with earnestness. "I know there's access."
Peter stared at him, but Neal wasn't making eye contact. Neal's attention was fully on Satchmo, now scratching the dog behind the ears.
"I'm sorry, Neal," Peter said. "I'm going to get you out of this. But right now, I'm in a tough spot."
"So no roof," Neal stated.
"No."
Neal grunted in return.
"Neal." Peter took a step forward and reached out to touch Neal's arm, but Neal pulled away. "Neal, come on."
"I could be anywhere else," Neal said. "Honestly. I just thought… I thought if I came here..."
"I know," Peter replied. "I know that."
Neal took a deep breath and then let it out, and only for a moment was the exhale shaky enough to show his true uneasiness of the whole situation. He then composed himself.
A knock at the backdoor sounded again.
"Peter?"
This time the voice was Elizabeth's, coming from the stairs. Peter turned towards her, shaking his head. "Honey."
"Neal?" she asked, her attention turning to the new arrival in their home.
"I'm a fugitive," Neal told her without turning or even moving at all, scratching Satchmo under his chin.
Peter gave Elizabeth a look, shrugging his shoulders with a feeling of forlorness. He glanced over at Neal, who remained stationary, and then approached his wife, lowering his voice. "Hon, I have no choice here."
Her expression was sympathetic but worried. She slowly moved towards them.
"It's him or the both of us," Peter persisted. "That's the only choice I have right now."
The knock pounded at the door again.
"At least give him clean clothes," she said, giving Peter a look.
"Clothes?" Peter echoed. That had been the last thing on his mind.
"Look at what he's wearing."
Another knock. Peter walked towards his back door, frustrated. With a sigh, he opened the door and stepped back outside, pulling the door closed behind him.
The same man from earlier stood in front of him, expression annoyed. A glance beyond him showed the others were still in close proximity, but had backed off compared to earlier.
"I need five minutes," Peter told the man.
"You already got five minutes," was the response.
"Give me five more."
A sigh, and a shaking head. "We cleared this with the Bureau. They agreed, and –"
"Two minutes," Peter responded. "That's all."
"Two. Fine."
Peter glared at the other man, but turned and went back into his house, closing the door behind him, more gently now than the first time.
As he turned around, he frowned at the sight of his wife lifting the shirt Neal had been wearing off of him, over his raised arms. Neal appeared completely docile and complacent to this.
"El," he objected, moving towards them.
"He's filthy," El said irritably. "There's no time to shower, but you can at least send him off in clean clothes." She pulled the shirt clear of Neal's arms and then gave Peter a look. "Let me grab something from the laundry."
Peter nodded, not bothering to remind her of their time constraint before the Marshals began banging on their door again. As she left, he focused on Neal.
Neal was sitting on the floor now, looking exhausted, and now only half dressed. Beside him, Satchmo sat looking confused at why the humans were behaving the way that they were.
"You know what's got to happen?" Peter began, hating that he even had to have this conversation.
Neal shrugged his bare shoulders. "What do you want me to say?"
"That you understand." Then Peter frowned, something catching his eye on Neal's bare arm. "What's that?" he demanded.
"Huh?" Neal asked. He looked up and then followed Peter's line of sight. He extended his arm, frowning at it himself. In the crook of his arm there was extensive bruising, darkening the skin. "Oh. Yeah."
"Oh yeah?" Peter echoed as he leaned down, taking Neal by the wrist, turning his arm so he could see better. In addition to the bruising and track marks, there was evidence of tape residue. "Neal, what the hell did he do to you? Did he inject something? What is this?"
Neal pulled his arm away, looking at the marks himself briefly before tucking his arm against his body. "What can I say," he replied. "I guess this is his answer when you disagree with his agenda."
"He drugged you?" Peter demanded incredulously. "Neal, what did he inject?"
"How should I know?" Neal replied with a hint of frustration. "Maybe you guys should have spent your time looking for him and not me."
"We are looking for him," Peter responded agitatedly.
"Oh yeah?" Neal replied. "That's what those guys in your backyard are doing?"
"Neal, this isn't what I expected tonight. Trust me."
"Because I shouldn't have come."
Peter sighed.
"Here," El said as she came up behind them, a clean long sleeved shirt offered in her hand. She handed it to Neal, who took it with a murmured 'thanks' before unfolding it and starting to pull it over his head.
El exchanged a look with Peter, the worry clear on her face.
A knock again sounded at the backdoor, increasingly insistent.
Peter knew he wasn't going to be able to buy any more time. He felt sick. "Neal," he started, watching as Neal pulled the shirt down over his torso. "Mozzie was right. My hands are tied right now. But tomorrow is a different story."
"Tomorrow," Neal mumbled. He was staring at the floor as he smoothed down the shirt over his abdomen. "Right. Tomorrow."
"I'm sorry," Peter said. "You know this isn't what I want."
"No?" Neal replied. He began to climb to his feet. "You know, you've threatened sending me back to jail plenty of times, Peter. Now you're maybe getting what you want."
"Neal, you know that's not true."
"No?" Neal simply made a face as he reached a standing position. "You haven't said that?"
Peter exhaled an exasperated breath, all his empty threats now haunting him. Not knowing what else to say, he again physically took Neal by his arms, holding him in front of him firmly. "I'll fix this, Neal. I promise. I just can't right now."
Neal made eye contact, but only swallowed, not verbally responding. He stood there stiffly.
"I will," Peter assured him, as the knock at the door sounded again. He glanced back towards the door, glaring at it, before focusing again on Neal.
Neal took a deep breath, and then nodded, bowing his head. "I understand," he acknowledged.
Peter sighed, reaching up a hand to comb it briefly through Neal's mussed hair. "Don't fight them," he said. "It's just procedure."
"I won't," Neal replied.
"And say nothing," Peter persisted. "Wait for me."
Neal nodded, still staring at the floor. "I will."
A brief moment passed, the silence deafening.
Then, against all of Peter's wishes, they walked towards the back door to meet the Marshals.
