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Chapter Two
Though it should have taken twenty minutes, he arrived at Mercy General five minutes quicker. However, he lost three trying to find a place to park and another two getting to the emergency entrance from the fourth level of the parking garage. So twenty minutes after speeding down DeKalb, he rushed through the doors of Mercy General. Hoping his Federal Agent demeanor would offset what he knew was a rumpled appearance, he charged the counter and whipped out his badge.
"I'm Agent Peter Burke, FBI," he barked before the staffer could address him. "I got a call that Neal Caffrey was being brought here. If he's here, I -"
"Agent Burke." A voice called. He looked over to see an officer had pushed through the double doors.
"O'Malley?" Peter queried, moving towards him. The man gave a confirming nod but turned back into the emergency department.
"Officer James O'Malley," he said over his shoulder. "Outta the 84th." Peter followed him, the doors swishing closed and then locking behind him. "You made good time," the man noted as Peter came alongside him. "We've only been here about ten minutes. Do you live close?"
"Close enough," Peter replied as they hurried down the hall of curtained treatment cubicles. Every one of them appeared to be occupied. No wonder he'd struggled to find a place to park. "How is he? Is he conscious yet?"
O'Malley shook his head. "No, but they've got him stabilized. They're worried about internal injures." The man glanced over at him. "He'll have to lose that tracker, Agent Burke. Do you have the key?"
He kept it on his key ring. Along with his car, house, and gym locker keys. "I have the key."
"Good," O'Malley replied. "Apparently it started beeping like mad on the way in. The medics were afraid they'd be met by a swat team."
"His crime was non-violent," Peter explained, answering the questioning look the man shot him. "But he is on a two-mile radius." He knew the presence of a tracking device could easily denigrate a person. He understood why but he'd still hate for Neal to be treated less because of it. Especially in this situation, when he was hurt and needed care. Again the man raised a brow. "Bond forgery. First-time offense." The only other time he'd minimized Neal's criminal activity was when he was trying to convince Hughes to bring in on. "He's working off his sentence consulting at White Collar."
"White Collar?" O'Malley repeated. A half-smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "So it takes one to know one?"
Peter shrugged. "Something like that."
They turned a corner and Peter thought back to O'Malley's words. They've got him stabilized. That meant at some point he hadn't been stable. How bad was it? Was it life-threatening? Was he in danger of dying? Neal drove him crazy sometimes, but if something happened to him...He jerked his thoughts away from that. Neal would be fine. He was healthy, strong, and too stubborn to die.
"Here we are."
O'Malley pulled the closed curtain open just enough for them to step in, but Peter was stopped short at the sight of Neal, stripped down to his boxers, lying still on the gurney. He was strapped to a straight board and a collar was fastened around his neck. There was emergency personnel at his side, doing whatever emergency personnel did. But Peter couldn't tear his eyes from their patient. If it wasn't for that damn tracking device on his leg, he could almost believe it was someone else.
His face was battered and still partially bloody. One eye was already swollen shut and the other was well on its way. His nose was crusted with blood, and his lips were split and bruised. It looked as if the medics had just cleaned the immediate area around two cuts, now closed with butterfly clips and enough of his nose to insert an oxygen tube. There was blood in his hair, on his cheeks, and though it disappeared beneath the collar fastened around his neck, it had trailed down his throat onto his chest. Bruises and abrasions seemed to cover his entire body. Peter's eyes narrowed on the bruises to Neal's arms; among the bruises, he could make out the clear indication of where Neal had been held, no doubt while the bastards pummelled him.
Similarly, among the bruises on his torso, one particular bruise just below his collar bone showed the unmistakable outline of a shoe print. Peter felt his blood begin to boil. No matter what mischief Neal had been up to, he hadn't deserved this.
"Is this him?" Peter looked up to see the doctor; he assumed he was the doctor, staring at him. Peter stared back.
"Yes," O'Malley cut in. "It's Agent Burke. He has the key."
The key. He whipped them out of his pocket and moved forward. Reaching down, he grasped Neal's ankle and quickly dispatched the device from his leg.
"How is he?" Peter asked, eyes returning to Neal's almost lifeless body as his temper raged at whoever had done this to him. "Is he going to be okay?"
"He's stable for now," the doctor answered, turning back to his patient. "But we need to prep him for surgery. Please wait in the waiting room."
Peter ignored the dismissal. "Surgery?"
"He's bleeding internally and we need to repair the damage." Peter clenched his jaws. Someone was going to pay for this. "Please contact his family, Agent Burke. Have them come in as soon as possible."
That specific direction caused Peter's heart to clench. "Is it that serious?" he asked, his mouth going dry. "Do you think-"
"Surgery is always serious," the doctor informed him firmly. "And we need a medical history and his records. Please reach out to his family or whomever he's named as his emergency contact."
"That's me."
The doctor glanced back, his gaze taking in the tracking device in Peter's hands before settling on his face. "Are you serious?"
In all the years of tracking, researching, and stalking Neal, Peter had never found even a trace of a family. If he had one, he'd had no contact with them in nearly a decade. He'd been surprised to learn that while in prison, Neal has listed him, the man who arrested him and sent him to prison, as his emergency contact. And two months ago, when he'd filled out paperwork with HR, he'd done the same thing. What had O'Malley said?
No mom or dad. No girlfriend or friend. Just Agent Burke.
"I'm afraid so." His eyes again drifted to Neal. A mask had replaced the nose cannulas, and they were covering his battered body with a blanket. He was so still as they tucked him in, and Peter's chest tightened. He looked so young lying there. So helpless. For all practical purposes, Neal was alone in the world and had been for a long time.
He swallowed hard as the realization settled in with all its weight. "I'm all he has."
"Then have the documentation confirming that faxed over along with his medical history. And go get him registered. Ready to move?" This last was directed at the other personnel in the room. Peter and O'Malley stepped aside as Neal was rolled past. "Surgery is on the second floor," he informed. "Once you've got him registered, you can wait there if you wish. Or if you'd rather, you can leave a number. I'll update you as soon as we are finished."
They moved down the hall, people stepping aside to clear the way before they disappeared around a corner.
"You staying?" O'Malley asked. "If so, I'll have the Detectives find you when they get here." He offered a wry grin. "Professional courtesy and all that. They'll be by after they finish up at the scene to collect the evidence."
Of course. The ER would have taken photos of Neal's injures; bagged his clothes for evidence. "Yeah, I'll be here," Peter answered. He wasn't going anywhere until he knew Neal was alright. Plus, the work-release agreement stipulated that Neal had to wear a monitor or be under direct supervision. As soon as he was out of surgery, he'd need to either replace the monitor or post a guard. Technically he could cuff Neal to the bedrail, but that seemed unduly harsh. Plus, if Neal really wanted to run, he could pick them in less than a minute. "You said there were witnesses," he reminded the man. "Did they get a good look at the suspects?"
O'Malley nodded. "They ran right past them. Said they didn't look like they were from the neighborhood. Clean cut and well dressed." He shrugged. "Probably slumming and looking for a score. Drugs or women. Both are plentiful in that neighborhood." He gave him a sideways look. "Think Caffrey was there for the same thing?"
Peter shook his head. "No," he replied with certainty. "Neal has his vices, but it's not drugs or paid ladies."
"Any of the vices he does have likely to have brought him to Water Street tonight?" The officer asked. "He's not from the neighborhood, either."
It was a valid question, but it irritated Peter all the same. Sure, he might have his own suspicions about why Neal was in that alley, but he knew Neal; this man did not.
"Maybe he just came down for a drink."
"There are plenty of bars in Manhatten, Agent Burke." Peter winced at that all too familiar response. It was hard to argue.
"I don't know why he was there," he admitted. "But there are no restrictions on his movements as long as he's within his radius. And he was."
"It was a long and brutal beating, Agent Burke," O'Malley informed him. "And they didn't take his wallet, phone or watch."
"Maybe they didn't get a chance." Peter offered an explanation, but even he didn't believe it. "You said they were interrupted."
"They were," he agreed, "but muggers generally want to get the goods and get away as fast as possible. These guys were taking their time."
Even though Peter knew what the man was getting at and suspected the same, he asked the question anyway.
"What are you trying to say, O'Malley?"
"That whatever happened in that alley wasn't random. It was personal. I think somebody tried to kill your consultant."
