Chapter 4
Visiting Day was tough. There was no denying it. Peter looked forward with great anticipation to Elizabeth's weekly arrivals even though it grieved him beyond words for her to visit him in this cheerless place and to see him behind bars, attired in a loose orange jumpsuit yet. He'd been tempted to beg Elizabeth not to come but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Peter longed for the sight of her, the smell of her, to hear his wife's voice again. It was all he'd thought about for days – when he wasn't obsessing about Neal Caffrey and the missing Nazi art.
Today, however, the fact that all Elizabeth could talk about was Satchmo was at first amusing, then perplexing, and now it'd become downright irritating. Enough with the dog already! Peter heard about where Satchmo slept, what Satchmo had for breakfast, and oh yes, how happy Satchmo was to be going on thrice daily walks again, his old dog walker newly returned from vacation. Peter's eyes were starting to glaze over and he would have missed Elizabeth's very direct look had something she said not clicked in his memory. Dog walker. Satchmo never had a dog walker. The only people who walked Satchmo were he and Elizabeth – and Neal Caffrey, whom Satchmo took an instant liking to from Day One. In fact, Satchmo's enthusiastic reaction to Neal was initially the reason Peter felt Elizabeth was safe with the con artist.
Surely Elizabeth couldn't mean…Neal? Was Elizabeth trying to convey a message to him in code? Peter jerked himself out of his reverie to gaze at Elizabeth intently through the smudged Plexiglas window covered with fingerprints and he didn't want to know what else. They both knew they were being video taped. Quickly Peter tried to form an appropriate response which would tell Elizabeth he'd gotten her message but he didn't want to tip off the guards or whoever it was who watched the tapes of their visits afterwards. Elizabeth wouldn't be speaking in code if it wasn't vitally important.
"Er…did you remember to give Satchmo his monthly dose of Advantage to keep the fleas away?" asked Peter haltingly. He knew it was a clumsy question but he hadn't had time to prepare. It never occurred to him in his wildest imaginings that Neal Caffrey would RETURN. Elizabeth glared at him, startled; exasperation in her blue eyes. Fleas? Fleas? How in the world was she supposed to respond to that? Pausing for a moment, she then calmly assured Peter that yes, Satchmo was getting his Advantage and not to worry - he was entirely flealess. The two of them sat in silence for a moment staring at each other numbly, trying in vain to communicate telepathically. Then Elizabeth brightened.
"Satchmo has learned a new trick!" she announced with pride. "He runs to the phone when it rings!" Peter's brow furrowed as he tried to interpret this hint. Neal's learned a new trick? Lord, let's hope not. He's got more than enough tricks up his sleeve. The very thought sent the perspiration glistening on Peter's forehead. Something about a phone. He's communicating with someone by phone? From her reaction, Elizabeth was interpreting this as a positive thing.
"Good," commented Peter seriously. "He's a smart dog." Well, no doubt about that. Elizabeth smiled, pleased her encrypted message was received loud and clear.
"And how are you, dear?" suddenly asked Elizabeth, obvious of the opinion it might look suspicious if she didn't show some interest in her incarcerated husband. She listened as Peter shared his opinion of the jail cuisine – no stars! The amenities – no stars there either! Customer service – the worse! Just wait until he posted a review on Yelp. In a few moments Peter had Elizabeth laughing in spite of herself. Peter knew that if push came to shove Elizabeth would be fine. She was very resourceful. He longed to be the one to take care of her and the fact that he couldn't tore at his heart. He pulled himself away from that precipice. He didn't have the luxury. He must concentrate on fixing this mess. Neal had returned. But why? And where was the art? His heart leapt with the thought he might be freed soon. If only Neal would come forward…
Later, lying on his hard narrow bunk in his bare cell, Peter's mind raced as he tried not to get his hopes up. The weight that burdened his heart for this past month lifted a little at the news Neal made contact with Elizabeth. Neal was making phone calls. This was making Elizabeth happy. So it made Peter happy. But what was Neal up to? Was he going to surrender the art? It would mean he'd be the one in prison, probably for the rest of his life. Peter couldn't see Neal sacrificing his life for him. Walking the dog, yes. Going to prison, no. Peter felt so helpless, unable to do anything but lie on his bunk and obsess about all these events which swirled around in his head. His career was probably over and his pension gone. What would become of he and Elizabeth? What else could he do to earn their living? He'd been over it so many times in his mind even he was bored rehashing it. Instead he brought to mind Elizabeth's sweet face, her kind smile, her deep blue eyes, and gradually noting her every virtue, he fell into a restless sleep.
Miles away, all the curtains were drawn at the Burke household. The doors and windows were double-locked, all the lights were turned off and Satchmo stood guard duty. Taking his responsibilities quite seriously, the lovable blond lab sat in the middle of the living room, his big ears tuned for any sound downstairs or up as he watched over the little group of humans huddled around the Burke's kitchen table by, literally, flickering candle light.
There was Neal Caffrey who'd mercifully changed into jeans and t-shirt, his long thick hair pulled uncharacteristically back into a pony tail tied with a red rubber band which turned out to be quite a good look for him or so marveled Diana Berrigan who sat next to him, hunched over the table peering at the small phone in his hands. The suspended FBI agent was dressed totally in black due to the necessity of sneaking into the small house unobserved. Between two fingers she held part of a fried chicken drumstick from the dinner which Elizabeth made for the clandestine occasion and her lips glistened in the shadowy light of the yellowy beeswax taper candles on the table in their shiny brass gothic holders.
"That's your fourth piece of chicken," marveled Neal, glancing over at Diana in wonder.
"So?" Diana said, giving Neal a jab. "Pay attention to what you're doing. Have you got him yet?"
"No," signed Neal, peering intently at the burner phone. The connection was good, he was sure of it. His pulse was quick and his chest felt tight with dread. Why doesn't Mozzie answer? It wasn't like him. Angry or not. He would answer.
"Maybe he's keeping it all for himself," offered Elizabeth, on the other side of the table with fork in hand as she coaxed green baby peas onto her spoon.
"He wouldn't," said Neal, shaking his head.
"You would," observed Diana bluntly, expertly ripping off a piece of chicken with her teeth.
"I would. Mozzie wouldn't," agreed Neal, shaking his head. He looked at his watch again to check the time. This was their designated time they'd agreed on.
"Try calling, not texting," suggested Diana, tossing the chicken bone back on her plate. She carefully wiped her fingers on yet another white paper towel, then crushed it up in her hands and tossed it onto the small pile of soiled paper towels by her fine Danish china plate with the blue painted windmill in a field of blue tulips.
"Alright," sighed Neal. That wasn't the plan. Text, said Mozzie. Stick to Texting. It's safer and harder to trace – no voice recognition software to worry about. Neal dialed the burner phone quickly, then put it to his ear. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
"Hello?" drawled a man's deeply accented voice, southern…Texas? West Texas, maybe. Neal blanched and quickly hung up. His hands were shaking as hurled the burner phone hard into the fireplace where it broke into a multitude of sharp pieces.
"Hey!" exclaimed Elizabeth, startled as she stared at Neal in outrage and then over at her damaged fireplace grate.
"That wasn't Mozzie," said Neal, his voice low and hoarse. "Someone has his phone. I had to make sure the connection couldn't be traced back here." His blue eyes looked searchingly from Diana to Elizabeth and back again in near panic. Didn't they understand what just happened? He folded his trembling hands tightly together on the table, trying unsuccessfully to steady them. His lifeline with Mozzie was cut. Someone had his phone. Did they have Mozzie too? Without Mozzie, all was lost. Peter might very well spend the rest of his life in jail. Himself as well. Although the room was dark and cold, Neal could feel perspiration break out on his forehead and his hands felt sticky and damp. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…the mantra kept running through his mind as he fought down his panic.
"Don't even think about it," warned Diana, her voice barely above a whisper as she rose from her chair slowly, in her hand a small black pistol, a "lady's gun".
"What's going on?" asked Elizabeth, startled. It wasn't often she'd felt fear in her life but she recognized the signs now. She leapt up from her chair, alerting Satchmo who trotted over, a low threatening growl coming from his throat, his eyes scanning the three humans, picking up a myriad of unusual and conflicting sensations, few of which he understood.
"Neal's going to run," explained Diana to Elizabeth. "If Mozzie's gone, there is no way to get the artwork back. Peter could be in jail for years and Neal wants no part of that." By now Diana had moved back several feet as she aimed the small gun at Neal; her actions prompting a rise in the really scary growl from Satchmo who was baring his sharp teeth slightly and panting in quick bursts of adrenalin. The muscles under his golden coat were tensed hard and rippled in the low light of the room.
"Is that true, Neal?" asked Elizabeth, disbelievingly. She stepped back as well. She'd never seen a gun drawn in real life and Diana was frightening her as was Satchmo. She didn't like the sound of that low growl one bit.
Neal didn't answer. He sat still at the table, hands tightly folded to the point his fingers hurt, his eyes cast down, his mind racing. This might well be his last moment of freedom if he didn't act immediately. He had no doubt Diana would shoot him if it came down to it. He was no match against even the small gun she held. But Satchmo…the dog was his ace in the hole. To stay? To run? Reluctantly coming to a decision that he knew would change his life forever, Neal twisted in his chair and looked Satchmo in the eyes as he opened his mouth to command…
On the other side of the world, a tall still well-built bare chested man probably in his 50's, in blue boxer swim trunks with a white Stetson on his balding head, jumped as someone came up behind him and snatched the weird plain-looking phone he'd just found out of his hand.
"Is that yours?" asked the man, drawling his words out to a ridiculous length. "Sorry, partner. I found it on the table here."
"Yes, it's mine!" exclaimed Mozzie, horrified he'd left the burner phone behind when picking up all his beach paraphernalia. "Thank you, sir," he said, slightly ashamed of his manners. He must look like an idiot to this kindly tourist on vacation. He held out his hand, trying to make amends. Rule #1 – Blend in.
"No, problem," the man said, with a friendly smile, shaking Mozzie's hand. Streaked white zinc oxide covered most of his round pleasant face under the wide brimmed hat while his deep-set brown eyes peered out from behind gray sunglasses not quite dark enough for this tropic climate. "Been here long?" he asked Mozzie easily, casting an appraising look over the nearly empty beach and the blue pounding surf beyond. "Heaven on earth, ain't it?"
"Been here awhile," Mozzie answered, honestly for once. "And you?" he countered politely, trying to make the expected small talk. Blend in. Blend in.
"Got here last night," the man said. "Born and raised in Odessa, Texas. Raised my kids there too. They're grown. Me and the wife want to see the world now. Thought we'd start with…"
"That's great!" interrupted Mozzie, trying to stifle the impatience welling up within him. "Listen, I have to go. Hope to see you again," he said, actually finding himself meaning his words. He suddenly realized how lonely he was without Neal.
As Mozzie turned away, he quickly dialed Neal's number, glancing at his watch. That's odd. Nothing. Not so much as a busy signal. Dead air. Neal, what have you done? He asked out loud as he fought down a feeling of nausea. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. Neal, what have you done? He asked again, shaking the burner phone in desperation but all he heard was silence.
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