Jones was only slightly alarmed when Diana suddenly appeared at his desk, a look on her face that implied whatever she was about to say was urgent.
Meanwhile, Diana's mind was racing. "This is more than coincidence."
He frowned. "What happened now?"
"Beth called back," Diana replied. "She was in a car accident."
"What?" Jones frowned. "Wasn't she just heading to get a rental car when you last spoke to her?"
"Exactly," Diana answered. "And guess what? The car that she was given had brake issues. You think that's just chance, Jones?"
"Is she okay?"
"Yes," Diana replied. "Just shaken up. She was waiting for the police to come when she called."
"The brakes?" Jones asked.
"Yes. She could tell something was wrong when she was about a mile away from the rental office. The brakes weren't responding. So she managed to pull off the main road, but didn't want to risk it so as she found an incline to slow down, she veered off the road." She paused. "Into a tree."
"So you think someone messed with her brakes?"
"Don't you?" Diana insisted. "Jones, I think we need to talk to the suspect. And I think I need to tell everyone to hold their positions. There's too much risk. I can't have anyone else getting hurt."
Jones ran a hand over his head, continuing to frown. "I don't disagree…" he said slowly.
"But do you actually agree?" she asked.
"I don't know," Jones admitted, giving her an earnest look. "I hear you, Diana. I do. But at the same time… How would the suspect be able to orchestrate all of this? What if it is just chance?"
"Just chance? How? And how did he suddenly have all those addresses and tips to give out?" she challenged back. "And maybe it's not him – maybe he has a partner."
Jones exhaled. "It's possible…"
"I get that you're skeptical," she continued. "I want to be too. But at the same time, I can't be putting people at risk…" She watched as Jones reached to pick up his phone. "What are you doing?"
"Trying Peter again," he responded.
She sighed. "What do you think I've been doing all morning?"
Peter tried to remain quiet as Neal prepared himself to move to the front of the helicopter. While he was tempted to give Neal explicit instructions on how he would suggest approaching the effort to get to the radio, it was a delicate balance. Neal was clearly nervous. Giving him too much instruction could cause him to become indignant or resentful. Worse, it could spook him further. Since agreeing to do it, Neal had grown quieter and his mannerisms were more reserved. Quiet Neal was the antithesis of what Neal usually represented; still, the calm, nonchalant expression on his face was betrayed by the thin sheen of sweat across his brow.
Peter noticed the younger man's hands were shaking.
"Don't panic," Peter told him gently.
"I'm not panicking," Neal responded, a bit terse. He shot Peter a slightly annoyed look as he shifted closer to the middle of the seat. The only way into the front of the helicopter while still in the vehicle was to climb between the two seats in front of them, and to maneuver into the empty passenger seat beside the pilot.
"Take your time," Peter replied as Neal moved.
Neal grunted but otherwise didn't respond, simply shifting himself more to the edge of his seat. He didn't want advice. Thiswas a simple task. He knew what he had to do. He just had to get the radio. There really wasn't even a strategy required. He wanted to tell Peter to be quiet, but couldn't bring himself to voice the request. He shifted further into position instead, centering himself. He could feel Peter's knee against his side now, and wished to stay there for a moment. The contact reminded him he wasn't alone. He also knew the longer he took to do this, the harder it would be.
Taking a deep breath, he nearly looked back at Peter again but then stopped himself. That would only be delaying the inevitable. If he looked back, Peter would probably say something. And he didn't want Peter to say anything again. He didn't need words of encouragement.
Never mind Peter had been completely unconscious moments before. And was acting like that hadn't happened.
Neal focused himself. This was a basic task that any FBI agent would do without a question. He simply had to get to a radio that was less than ten feet away.
He'd done much more complicated things. He'd been in hairier situations. So why did he feel this aching pit in his stomach now, and like his limbs were made of lead?
His eyes drifted towards the form of Ed in the front seat. Ed, who had been a fun companion. Who he'd actually enjoyed talking and traveling with. Who had, until just a short while ago, been lively and personable. Breathing.
While Neal admittedly had been involved in a number of different crimes in his life, the one thing he always avoided was anyone getting hurt. Violent crimes were not in his repertoire. He purposefully avoided partners that preferred to rely on firearms and brute force. He favored outsmarting and manipulating his opponents over physical competition. He abhorred blood and gore.
And dead bodies.
"Neal."
Peter's voice from behind him jarred him back into the present, and he tried to move his eyes away from Ed. The rest of the view in front of him was unpleasant as well, with broken glass, remnants of the tree limbs that had split upon impact, and a dashboard that he now feared could electrocute him. But it wasn't a dead body.
"I'm going," Neal spoke before another inevitable comment from Peter could come first. He moved himself forward, distracting himself briefly by recalling other experiences where he had been forced to maneuver himself into tight spaces. All those spaces on contrast seemed... much cleaner. And thinking about them wasn't helping.
He realized as he moved that there was no real graceful way to maneuver into the front seat. And as he continued to push forward, he also realized there was no way to do it without at least brushing into Ed. He could fit between the seats, but barely. Coming into contact with the dead would be inevitable.
He briefly froze and squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the urge to pull back and find his previous seat again. With his eyes closed, he focused on just the darkness for a moment, but didn't expect the wave of dizziness and nausea that accompanied it. He let out a breath and reopened his eyes, pushing forward.
Peter didn't miss the hesitation, watching with a frown as his CI stretched himself between the front seats. He was wondering about Neal's choice to go arms and shoulders first when Neal suddenly reversed his movement, scrambling backwards nearly into Peter's lap.
Peter let out an 'umph' at the impact.
"Sorry," Neal responded as he awkwardly shifted a few inches away, a little breathless. "Sorry." He rubbed his hands over his thighs, glaring down at the bulky duffle bag that he'd previously dropped to the floor. The flares and other supplies.
"It's fine," Peter replied, shaking his head a little bit. He hadn't been expecting that sudden movement from Neal and it incensed his headache. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Neal said quickly. "Totally fine. Just need to try to go the other way." He now ran his hands over his head, looking frustrated. "I'm good."
Peter thought Neal looked a little clammier than before but didn't say anything. Neal was already moving forward again, this time taking an approach that was more akin to climbing over the seats. With fluid motion this time, one leg going first and finding a platform on the front seat to base himself, he stretched over the seats and pulled himself the rest of the way over.
Peter watched silently with only a frown.
Neal made a mumbled noise under his breath as he finally made it, immediately pushing himself further from Ed once he was settled in the seat. He then turned to view the body.
"He's definitely dead," Neal spoke monotonously.
"You knew that, Neal," Peter told him. "Focus on the radio."
"There's glass everywhere." Neal paused. "And blood."
"So be careful."
"I think his face is gone."
Peter was about to admonish him for the statement, but then stopped himself. His eyes drifted to the form of Ed again. His couldn't see much from this angle and was suddenly thankful. "Don't look at him," he told Neal. What else was there to say?
"I'm not," Neal replied. "But I think it's burned into my retinas now."
Peter sighed. "Does the radio work, Neal?"
Neal leaned forward, reaching for the radio. The rain was coming in from the broken windshield, splattering on his skin, beginning to be absorbed by his clothes. He barely noticed.
"You may need to adjust the channel," Peter reminded.
"I need his headset," Neal began. He sat back.
Peter paused. They had both discarded their own headsets after the crash. Peter barely remembered sliding his off, but now located it beside him. He realized Neal was somewhat correct. The radio was connected to the headsets.
"Don't touch him," Peter replied. "Use mine." He took the headset from next to him and leaned forward to offer it to Neal.
Neal turned and reached to take it from him, a look of relief. "Yeah. You're right," he said.
"You're fine, Neal," Peter reminded him.
"I wanted to sit up here," Neal said.
"What?" Peter asked. He frowned, headache throbbing.
"I wanted to sit up here," Neal repeated. "You said no."
"Well, you can thank me later," Peter answered. Neal seemed distracted, deep in thought. Peter couldn't say he blamed him, all things considered. "Radio, Neal."
"Right," Neal replied, nodding as he lifted the headset to slide it on over his ears. He then reached for the radio again.
"Hear anything?" Peter asked, feeling a little impatient.
Neal didn't respond, head bowed, fingers moving across the controls of the radio.
"Neal."
"Sh…" Neal answered. He continued to focus, turning dial after dial. "There's not even static, Peter." He continued to go channel to channel. "I think it's dead."
"Shit," Peter muttered.
"Now what?" Neal asked. "I can keep trying, but…" He sat back and reached to pull off the headset. "I'm not sure this is going to get us anywhere." He glanced over at Ed again, and then quickly looked away, trying not to gag.
"You're sure it's dead?"
"Everything up here is dead!" Neal raised his voice in exasperation, as he sent a glare towards the backseat. "I think I'm going to be sick." His hand moved towards the handle of the door next to him. "I need air, Peter. I need some goddamn air."
"Okay, okay," Peter replied, trying to appease him. "We'll get air. Come back here," he told him.
Neal pulled at the door handle, finding it stuck. He pulled harder, tugging once, then again, and again. Finally he stopped and then cursed, slapping his hand against the door in frustration.
"Neal…" Peter said more firmly.
Neal exhaled in aggravation, and then took a deep breath. He didn't speak, but started to move in an effort to make his maneuver back to the rear of the vehicle.
Peter said nothing as Neal came back. It took him a moment, finding the balance of getting close enough to Ed without having to brush into him any more than was absolutely necessary. Meanwhile, Peter stayed stationary, wishing for his headache to go away.
As Neal settled back into the rear seat, choosing now to sit noticeably directly beside Peter in the center of the row versus his previous spot by the window, Peter noticed for the first time how wet he was. He reached over and placed a hand on Neal's knee, feeling the water drenched fabric.
"You're soaked."
"It's raining," Neal replied simply.
"You okay?"
"Better than Ed."
Peter sighed. "That's not what I asked."
"It's true though." Neal paused. "Remind me not to take a case out of town with you again."
Peter smirked and moved his hand from Neal's leg to place it on his back. "You don't get a choice on cases. But it's not what I had in mind either, Neal." He paused and then patted Neal's back gently. His shirt was wet as well. "You did good by the way. I wouldn't want to have traded places."
Neal grunted and then shook his head. "Is this the weirdest case you've been on?"
"Weird?" Peter echoed. "Is that what you'd call it?"
Neal shrugged. "I don't know what to call this."
"I've had a lot of weird cases," Peter acknowledged. "And while I've been stranded, I have to say this is a new experience for me…" He paused, sliding his hand off of Neal's back. "Where was the first aid kit, Neal?"
"Also back here," Neal replied with a jab of his finger towards behind them.
"Get it, will you?"
Neal frowned. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Well, I'm not hurt so—"
"Just get it," Peter interjected, cutting him off. "And I'm not so sure about you. You're still bleeding."
Neal reached to touch his hairline, where there was a fresh smudge of blood. His fingertips came back red. He rubbed the stain off his hand on his pants and then turned in his seat, reaching towards where he had been shown the rest of the supplies were by Ed prior to take-off. He pulled out the white box, clearly labeled as the first aid kit with bold red letters, and placed it on his lap.
"Is there a pair of scissors?" Peter asked.
"Scissors?" Neal echoed as he opened up the white box. There was the standard array of provisions – bandages, medical tape, disinfectant. He located a small pair of scissors and extracted it from the box.
"Good," Peter replied. He took the scissors from Neal's hand. "Give me your foot."
Neal's brow furrowed. "What are you going to do, Peter?"
"Exactly what you'd do." Peter gestured with his hand for Neal to comply. "I'm going to get hell for this," he said, "but you're going to be the first CI in our department to go through three anklets in a week."