Find Me If You Can: The Reaper
by Lacadiva
Chapter Two
Disclaimer: Please see chapter one for disclaimer. Hope you'll enjoy.
"You should have told me about Wilkes…"
Peter heard Neal's voice repeating it over and over in his head as he walked the perimeter of Café Lautrec for the third time, looking for any clue he could find. He lifted the yellow crime scene tape and ducked under it once more, and gave a long disdainful gaze at the crowd of curious on-lookers. No one had come forward with information, yet here they were, all gathered to catch a glimpse of tragedy.
Two hours. It had been over two hours since Peter's call to Neal. Elizabeth was with him – he heard her laughing in the background, he was convinced of it. The call seemed to have ended abruptly with Neal's accusatory statement about Wilkes. But the line had remained open for a time, and he was certain that Neal had done that deliberately. A good strategy, but it didn't work. Peter strained to hear whatever conversation Neal had intended him to hear; unfortunately it sounded like voices down a long tunnel before the line went dead a minute later. So where the hell was he, and where was El?
He held tightly to Neal's discarded and now bagged-as-evidence tracking anklet as if it were some kind of quasi-mystical charm that could reveal the whereabouts of his missing CI. The device had been removed, not by deliberate tampering or careless destruction, but with a key, which meant Neal had more than likely removed it himself. But how had he gotten hold of a key this time?
"You should have told me about Wilkes."
Peter ran a nervous hand through his hair as he pondered all the questions, inconsistencies and possibilities. Was Neal simply on the run, or was his reproof about Wilkes his way of saying Wilkes was responsible for his disappearance? And why and how was Elizabeth involved? Was she with him? She had to be. All he knew was that El was not answering her phone, and had never returned to work. Agents verified that she was not at home. If Neal had been kidnapped as he had feared, it was logical to assume that Elizabeth had been taken as well.
"You should have told me about Wilkes."
He speed-dialed Elizabeth for the seventh time, hoping against hope that she would finally answer and tell him she was fine. More than fine: safe. But just as before, the call rolled over into her voice mail. Her cheery digital greeting gave no clue as to where she was, or what she might be enduring at the moment, and the thought of that made Peter dizzy with worry and anger.
More questions: What was she doing having lunch with Neal? How had Neal slipped by Jones, Diana and the rest of his agents when he'd made it blatantly, abundantly clear that Neal was not to leave headquarters under any circumstance?
Neal was right: He really should have told him about Wilkes.
"Peter!" Jones called out from the entrance to the restaurant. Peter took long strides to the meet up with his agent, desperate for answers.
"What have you got?" he asked hurriedly, hopefully.
"Just got a call from a Special Agent Donald Maddox, the one holding Wilkes' chain. Swears Wilkes has been with him all morning, working a job with the assistance of the DoJ."
"Get him here. Both of them. I want to talk to them myself."
"Burke!"
Peter turned from Jones when he heard Hughes' voice and followed it, even as speed-dialed Elizabeth one more time, hoping.
"Peter," Hughes said more gently when no one else was in earshot, "how are you holding up?"
Peter didn't know how to answer the question. He looked at the cell phone in his hand, and then looked around the crime scene. Agents were working the scene diligently. Uniformed Officers were at their beck and call. Jones was interviewing furiously, as was Diana, who could make even the most stubborn offender break down and cooperate. No one was coming up with answers. Everything was leading to a horrible dead end.
He was nearly breathless as he spoke. "I told them, Reese. I TOLD THEM! Don't trust Wilkes, don't make a deal with him! He's a highly-motivated psychopath with a chip on his shoulder as big as his ego and his I.Q. combined, and he's hell-bent on revenge against Neal."
"The deal he cut with the bureau was juicier than Neal's. We took a chance."
"We don't take chances like that. Now he's got Neal and he's probably got El. We need to find him and bring him in…"
"We don't know that it's Wilkes yet, so let's not jump to conclusions. We'll figure this out. Peter, listen…it's bad enough that it's Caffrey, but now that it appears Elizabeth is involved… I think you know where I'm going with this."
"Reese…don't! Don't say it…"
"You're too close. You know I'm right. I can't have my agents making decisions when they're emotionally involved. I'm going to have to ask you to step back."
"You can't ask me to do this. You can't. It's my wife! It's Caffrey! No one knows either of them better than I do! For God's sake…"
"That is precisely why I need you to step back, Peter! The last thing I need is you charging in trying to play hero and compromising this entire operation."
"You know me better than that!" Peter spat, and stopped, realizing that the volume and tenor of his voice wasn't helping his cause. "Reese…"
"I'm putting Diana in charge for now," Hughes said. "She'll keep you in the loop. I'm not asking you to step down. Just…step back. Let your people do their jobs. You've trained them well; they know what they're doing. I don't want you running off trying to do this on your own either. If you do, I will bench you. Am I clear?"
Peter had no choice. He could protest but it wouldn't get him far. Hughes' phone began to trill. He gave Peter's arm a fatherly squeeze and walked away to answer his call.
Peter shook his head. This was a little more than he thought he could bear. And then his eyes focused on street traffic and passersby.
"Somebody had to see something," he mumbled to himself. He looked for surveillance cameras and saw two mounted on neighboring buildings. One was focused near the outdoor seating of the cafe. The other appeared to be trained on the intersecting streets.
"You!" Peter called out to two young Agents who were standing with hands in pockets, observing. "I want all the video footage from those street surveillance cameras. Find out if there are others. Move!"
Diana was watching Peter, one eye on him even as she interviewed café employees. She waited until Hughes had climbed back into his silver Crown Victoria before approaching Peter.
"Boss," she said, "I just finished speaking with the café manager. I think he's lying through his teeth. I thought you'd like to have a word with him before I take him in."
"Reese just asked me step back."
"And?"
Peter smiled and followed Diana to the entrance of Café Lautrec.
~WC~
He could smell the place in spite of the heavy hood still covering his face. The pungent odors were irritating – old machine oil mingled with dust and a foul mustiness that probably meant the place had been closed up and devoid of fresh air for a very long time. There was another smell permeating the place as well, something that sent a chill through Neal – it was the smell of death.
They took his phone the moment he stepped blindly into the van. He heard one of them smash it on the pavement just outside before they slammed the door and pulled off. His connection to Peter had been severed. Hope began to fade.
Neal tried to deduce his whereabouts during the drive, following the route in his head – every stop, turn and changed lane. But his captors had also done a good job of deflecting his attention. Their abusive methods had left him with a throbbing headache. A punch here, a kick there, no doubt at Wilkes's orders. When once he heard a tiny gasp escape from Elizabeth, he thought his own heart would stop.
"El!" he cried out as he tried to stand and defend her, despite his arms being tied behind his back. He only succeeded in losing his footing in the fast-moving vehicle, and crashed to the floor. His captors laughed heartily at Neal, and left him lying on the floor for the remainder of the drive.
Several minutes later the vehicle came to a stop, and Neal heard the doors open, and felt rough hands grab him by his arms and drag him to his feet.
He could tell by the change in air pressure and the sudden coolness of temperature, by sounds and sharp smells, that they were inside some wide open space, like a warehouse or factory, perhaps. As they pushed him along, he listened for sounds of machinery, engines, voices, anything that could give him some clue, hope or sign so that he could begin to plan their escape, or determine how or what he could do to protect Elizabeth.
Elizabeth! He did not hear her heels clacking on the floor…concrete, he had deduced. Where was she? Had she gotten out of the van at the same time? Or had Wilkes separated them in order to control Neal?
"Elizabeth? Where's Elizabeth?" he demanded. Somebody slammed the butt of a gun right between his shoulder blades. "Keep moving!" one of the men shouted, and gave Neal a shove.
He felt the air pressure change yet again as he stepped over a metal threshold into what felt like a smaller area. It smelled musty, like an old refrigerator that had been unplugged and left dormant for a long time. Someone roughly cut the ropes that were binding his wrists. It hurt as blood rushed back to his hands and fingers. The hood was suddenly pulled from his head, leaving his thick hair slightly askew.
Bright fluorescent light assaulted his eyes, making him blink and squint. The coolness of the air made him aware that there was a bit of dried blood on the side of his faced. When he was able to stop blinking, his eyes focused on Wilkes, sitting in an antique wooden ladder back chair.
"Welcome to Fantasy Island." Wilkes said.
"Where's Elizabeth?"
"First things first."
"Where is she!"
"Patience. We'll get to her, I give you my word." He held up his hands like a proud real estate agent showing off a peach of a duplex. "What do ya think?"
The room was small and narrow, with rusted metal shelves built into the side walls. Said walls appeared to be part metal and part some kind of heavy duty plastic with ancient cooling units. The ceiling was all metal with a still fan in the middle of it. The floor was untreated concrete with dark stains that Neal knew instantly was old blood. A wide mouth drain which had been recently filled in with still wet cement to discourage any bright ideas of escaping was in the middle of the floor. All this was bad enough, but made worse when Neal saw the thick black chain hanging from the ceiling, at the end of which was a rusted heavy duty meat hook.
"Early abattoir, Neal said. "The meat hook is a real conversation piece. Pity I'm not a big fan of the 'Saw' movie franchise."
"Aw, come on, Super Neal," Wilkes said as he stood. "It ain't so bad. Got all the comforts of home. Look…" Wilkes pointed to some of the items in the room. "You got a laptop computer….a bed, fairly clean sheets…"
"Doesn't get much sun. Can I see something else?"
"You're not gonna have time to enjoy the place, I'm afraid. You're gonna be a little busy."
"Doing what?"
"Making me a very rich man."
"You're already a rich man. I want to see Elizabeth."
"You'll see her shortly. I need you to focus on the project at hand."
"Which is?"
Neal saw a worktable and moved to it. It was dull metal and dented, but at least there was no visible signs of old blood. Along with the laptop were stacks of coffee table size books, nearly a dozen, all about one artist in particular.
"Joan Miro?" asked Neal.
"You've heard of him."
"Spanish painter. Man of the people. Embraced social revolution. I've seen a few of his pieces."
"You've also forged one."
"Allegedly."
"Aw, don't be so modest. What else do you know?"
"He liked to play with scale. Murals."
"Ever hear of 'The Reaper'?"
"Blue Oyster Cult song or the short lived Fox television series?"
"I'm thinking Paris World Exhibition of 1937."
"Miro painted a large panel for the Spanish Republic pavilion. The subject was a Catalan peasant. Shortly after the fair, the panel was destroyed, and the piece was lost forever."
"Congratulations," Wilkes said, clapping his hands. "You go to the head of the class."
Wilkes moved to pick up one of the books from the worktable and tossed it to Neal.
"You're going to recreate it for me."
"The Reaper? I think I said the mural had been destroyed. The inference is no one has seen The Reaper since 1937. No one knows what it looks like. No one alive. Including me."
"That's right, Caffrey. And… you're going to recreate it for me. Or…" Wilkes grabbed hold of the rusty meat hook and swung it hard toward Neal. Wilkes' men grabbed Neal forcefully by his arms and pulled him toward the hook. The lifted him off his feet. Neal felt the sharp point of the meat hook dig into his back, and knew that if he fought or moved, he would be impaled. He wanted to cry out, but knew it would do him no good.
Wilkes came close, looking up at Neal. He wasn't smiling anymore. His psychotic eyes were glistening with his desire to maim and destroy. Neal felt sweat break out over his entire body.
"Or… I will hang you from that meat hook until you bleed out like a slaughtered lamb. And the lovely Mrs. Burke will watch every excruciating second of your protracted, painful demise. Do we have an understanding?"
Neal barely nodded. Wilkes gave a signal and the men released Neal, dropping him to the floor. He stood up and felt behind his back for blood. His shirt – his expensive linen shirt – had indeed been rent along with a few layers of his skin. Bright red decorated the tips of his fingers.
"How am I supposed to recreate something I've never seen?"
Wilkes was almost giddy again. "Please, please tell me you see the beautiful irony in this. The opportunity! Just use your imagination. Besides, you don't have to paint the whole thing. Just a little piece about…" Wilkes made the shape of a rectangle with his hands. "…yea big."
~WC~
The Manager sat at a booth sweating profusely despite the chill air conditioning. He was also shaking like a leaf and gnawing on his bottom lip so hard that when he let go of it, it appeared to be slightly swollen. Peter noted his agitation right away.
"This is Agent Peter Burke," Diana told the Manager. "Tell him what you told me."
The Manager swallowed hard before speaking. "I don't know why I have to keep repeating myself," he said indignantly, voice trembling ever so slightly. "The woman your Agent spoke of…she entered the restaurant from the outside café and asked for the ladies' room. She was in there for a minute or so, and then she left. I never saw her again after that."
"Was this her?" Peter said, showing him a picture of a smiling Elizabeth on his cell phone.
The Manager seemed to cringe ever so slightly, but not so slightly that Peter didn't notice.
"Yes, I…I believe that was her."
"Did she leave with anyone?"
"I wasn't paying attention. I was busy, preparing for the lunch rush."
Peter pushed a few buttons on his cell phone and showed him a picture of Neal. "Was she with this man?"
He swallowed hard again. "Mr. Caffrey. He's a regular here. But I didn't notice per se, if they were together."
"Per se?" asked Diana. "How about this man?" She held up a mug shot of Ryan Wilkes. The Manager seemed to blanch at the sight of him. He began worrying his bottom lip again.
"He never came inside my restaurant."
"You're saying you've never seen him?" Peter asked impatiently.
"I'm saying…he never came inside the restaurant."
"But you have seen him?"
The Manager didn't speak. He simply stared at Peter while sweat beaded up on his upper lip and made an icy trail down the middle of his back.
Peter grabbed hold of the Manager's lapels and pulled the nervous man to his feet, face to face with him.
"You have three seconds to tell me what I need to know!" Peter snarled.
"I've got rights!" the Manager shouted.
"Diana," Peter said, teeth grinding with anger, "as a Federal Agent, what are you going to do to protect this man's rights?"
Diana casually turned her back.
Peter gave the Manager another good shake. "Listen to me…that woman is my wife. Do you understand? Her name is Elizabeth. If she is harmed in any way, and if I find out you had anything at all to do with it, I will make sure you're put away for a very, very long time. Am I clear?"
"Please…"
"Tell me!"
"I can't!"
"Can't? Someone's got something on you. Is it Wilkes?"
"I don't know what you're talking about! Please…my daughter…I have to pick her up. She's waiting for me at her school. It's not safe. Please."
"What do you mean, not safe? Who's threatening you?'
"Please…I can't…"
Peter let him go. "We are not done. You understand?"
Never taking his eyes off of the Manger, he told Diana, "Have someone escort this man to pick up his daughter. As soon as she is secure, bring him in for further questioning."
Peter stepped outside, hands on his hips to steady himself, and breathing in big gulps of the warm, humid air. Too much; he began to feel dizzy, and felt the blood rush from his face. Diana was immediately at his side.
"Boss…you need to sit down."
Peter looked Diana sternly in the eye. "No! I need to find my wife. I need to find Neal. I want to talk to everyone working a shift while Neal and Elizabeth were here."
"On it," Diana said, and headed back to the kitchen where the staff was told to wait.
~WC~
Wilkes opened the laptop computer and hit the power button.
"This little pet project was something I was working on before your buddy Burke interrupted my flow and sent me up the river."
"By flow, I'm assuming you mean kidnapping and attempted murder."
"Whatever. There was an unsubstantiated rumor floating around the art world that a little piece of that painting had turned up in some old French country home, in the middle of 'le nowhere'. There also happens to be a collector of obscure objet d'art, obscenely rich and on the Fruity Pebbles side of eccentric – my favorite flavor - who is willing to part with a King's ransom to get his hot little hands on that hunk of wall, no matter how small. As you can imagine, every forger worth his salt has pony'd up and presented their best work. None of them could be authenticated. One or two came real close. The difference is none of them were Neal Caffrey."
"You flatter me."
"Just telling it like it is, Boy Wonder."
"Tell me, Batman, how much of a king's ransom are we talking about?"
"Last offer I heard… something to the tune of forty million dollars. Give or take."
"Forty…" Neal whispered, and choked back the rest. Whenever art and exceedingly large sums of money were combined topics of conversation, Neal always noticed an instant change in his physical condition: a mild shortness of breath (as if the air had suddenly somehow thinned), a slightly elevated heart rate, and rush of excitement that set his mind abuzz with possibilities. Soon he would be entertaining thoughts of what Peter once called his "something for nothing schemes." But what if…what if!...this time he could hit pay dirt? Worse, Neal was never more predictable than when handed a challenge, be it a simple game of chess or forging that which could not be forged. He felt this when Keller challenged him with the Franklin bottle. He was feeling that adrenaline rush now. But more was at stake than Caffrey being the unbeatable best. His life and, more importantly, Elizabeth's life, were counting on it.
"You realize," Neal said, hoping to calm his own racing mind with logic, "that your buyer will no doubt have a team of overpaid, anal-retentive experts dead set on earning their keep. They'll test the Miro forgery down to the cellular level."
"That's where you're particular kind of genius comes in, Super Neal."
"What if it can't be done? What if I pass every test but one…"
Wilkes pointed at the meat hook. "What more can I say? You've heard it all before….all the ways I'm gonna make you suffer. But let's imagine the glass is half full. That half a mil you took from me? Gone. Off the books. Forgotten. All the crap between us…it'll be like it never happened."
"Caffrey vendetta cancelled. Okay…what else?"
"Mrs. Burke gets to grow old with her husband. And you also get a briefcase stuffed with one million tax free, non-sequential, unmarked American dollars. My gift to you for a job well done. Now how does all that sound?"
"Very generous."
"You bet your big blue eyes it is. Because the flip side means your boy Burke's gonna be a sad and sorry widower looking for a new C.I."
Wilkes' phone rang. He checked the number and cursed under his breath. "What?" He listened, eyes still set on Neal. It was obvious that this was not a call he wanted to receive. He disconnected and quickly dropped his phone into his pocket.
"It's been real," he said to Neal, "truly a slice, but I gotta go. I'll be back, though. Why don't you do a little research, get acquainted with Senior Miro, and we'll figure out the next step later."
Wilkes headed for the door, his men right on his heels.
"If I do this," Neal called after him, "I'm going to need a few things."
"Make me a list. My boys will see to it you get everything you need."
"Ryan, wait!" Neal cut him off before he could reach the door. "I want to see Elizabeth!" Instantly, Wilkes' men grabbed Neal and pulled him back harshly. Wilkes gestured for them to let Neal go.
"Prove to me she's all right."
"Show him," Wilkes said. The larger of the two men went to the computer, tapped a few keys, and turned the computer screen towards Neal. There was a close circuit video feed, bluish white in tone. Elizabeth was sitting on a cot in room smaller than Neal's. She was neither tied nor blindfolded, but she did look quite vulnerable.
"Put her in here with me," Neal said, "or my answer is no."
"I don't have time for this," Wilkes said, rubbing the top of his smooth bald head.
"I need an assistant. Put her to work with me. What's the harm?" Neal knew he didn't need help, but it was the only straw he could grasp, the only card he could play, the only way he knew he could keep Elizabeth safe and by his side.
"You make a little progress, and I'll think about it. But In case you're trying to pull a fast one, check this: This 'room' used to be a meat locker. And it's still functional. Might get a little cold for her. Might get a little cold for you too if you piss me off."
Wilkes left. The men were right behind him. They closed the door, effectively locking it from the outside. There was no way out for Neal. He sat heavily before the computer and stared at the image of Elizabeth. "Hang in there," he said. "I'll get us out of here. Somehow. I promise."
~WC~
Agent Maddox sat in his car outside waiting for Wilkes. He kept checking his watch, as if every second he waited were crucial. When Wilkes finally climbed into the passenger seat, Maddox instantly handed Wilkes his tracking anklet.
"Put it on. Now," he demanded.
"Ooh, Donald! I love it when you get all controlling."
"Shut up!" Maddox cried. "You never said anything about kidnapping the wife of an F.B.I. agent! Do you realize how much crap we are in?"
"Did you know," Wilkes said with a nasty grin, "that you got a little vein on your forehead that throbs when you get angry?"
"You need to take me seriously, Ryan! If you blow this arrangement…I'm not going to jail for you. You got that? I told you, you want my help, we do things my way."
Wilkes looked at the Maddox as if the agent had lost his mind.
"Let me remind who's running this show. You got a ten million dollar pay day coming from me to you, but only if you keep cool and do your job! Look at you - you're sweating like a guilty man. Oh, yea, you are guilty. You betrayed the badge. You're the F.B.I.'s worse nightmare, a greedy man with a gun and a flexible sense of right and wrong. Listen, and I pray you listen carefully…I have worked too long and too hard to have this little project unravel on me now. So you buck up and do your job, 'cause I'm doing mine. You're the one who came to me. Remember? I was sitting behind bars, minding my business, doing my time. You came to me when the feds couldn't do anything for you. You propositioned me! You dangled that C.I. position in front of me like a golden carrot. Now, because of my generosity, your lovely wife is having the best cancer treatments money can buy, and in a few short days the two of you will be rich enough to buy your own little island in the tropics and enjoy the rest of your lives together. Because of ME! So do me a favor, Donald. Do your job. Now shut up and drive."
Maddox wiped a thin line of sweat from his upper lip and started the car.
End Chapter 2