Warning: Mention of cannibalism in reference to the sinking of the Essex and the Edger Allan Poe novel. Also a mention of throwing up, but no actual throwing up happens.
Thank you guys for all the reviews, favorites, and followings. I plan of fixing the last chapter when I get home from work this evening. I am horrible at heterographs. The last chapter had a few and I'm sure you guys will find more. I'd really appreciate it if you guys pointed them out to me, like you have been. Thank you.
This chapter got really long, again. Enjoy…
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Chapter 3
It would take roughly 25 minutes for Peter to drive to the safe house. Peter knew, he'd timed it.
Exactly 15 minutes into the drive Hughes called. Damn, news travels fast.
He didn't even get a 'hello' in before Hughes asked "Is it really him, Peter?"
Peter stole another glance at the unconscious boy in the back seat before answering. "I don't know. He is a lot younger than we thought he'd be."
Hughes didn't answer right away and when he does he is hesitant. "How much younger?"
Peter sighs as he switches lanes. "We thought he was in his mid-twenties or early thirties. He's not."
"How much younger, Peter? How old would you guess he is? 18, 19, what?"
"15. 16 is pushing it. He is half the age we thought he was.
"Damn, that's young." Hughes' voice came over the line, softly.
"It is and it doesn't seem likely this is Caffrey, but those paintings of Ruticker's do have Caffrey traits to them."
Peter could hear Hughes sighing on the other line.
"Where are you taking him?" Hughes finally asked.
"Back to the safe house." He stole another glance at the boy, who, in spite of being unconscious, was coughing. "Though I should be taking him to the hospital."
"Is he injured?" Hughes quickly asked, worried.
"No, not really injured. Though Ruticker did break his hand a while back."
"Then what are you worried about?" Hughes interrupted.
"He's coughing and wheezing. I think he has got a fever too."
"But nothing too bad?" Hughes asked hesitantly.
"No. I guess not. Why Hughes?"
"We've still got some loose ends to wrap up with Ruticker and I think it might be safer for you and the kid if you stayed at the safe house for a little longer."
Oh right. Ruticker's psycho kid, the one with a gun.
"Alright I'll take him to the safe house just don't leave me there hanging with the kid too long."
"We'll try not to, Peter"
"He will need a hospital before long, Hughes."
"I'll call you as soon as I know It is safe, Peter." With that Hughes hung up.
Peter sighed as he put the phone away and kept driving.
It didn't take much longer to drive to the safe house and before Peter knew it he was opening the kid's door.
Peter stared at the kid as soon as the door opened. He was still unconscious, but he was starting to stir. What really got Peter's attention though was the boy's bare feet. It was the middle of March with a high in the low forties and the kid was barefoot in jeans and a polo. Peter was cold even with his coat on. He couldn't imagine how cold the kid would be.
Closing the door, to keep the heat in, Peter went to the trunk. Silently making a note to thank El later. He dug out the old blanket she had stashed back there. The old comforter was worn around the edges, but it was warm and covered the boy.
He was halfway to the door with the bundled conman when he passed an older couple. Their suspicious, questioning eyes made Peter fidget. I do look a little suspicious carrying a teenager.
"He just got is tonsils out. Still a bit out of it from the anesthesia." Peter said trying to cover his tracks. He really didn't need the police to be called.
The boy decided at that moment to moan and snuggle deeper into Peter's grip.
The woman smiled. "I'm sure the offer of ice cream will perk him up. Though our boys always liked orange juice when they weren't quite with it. They didn't have to worry about it melting.
Peter nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."
The couple smiled before walking on, allowing for Peter to finally make it to the safe house.
The boy instantly snuggled into the blanket as soon as Peter put him down on the sofa. He was starting to come to.
Running to the bathroom, Peter rummaged through the first aid kit for Tylenol and a thermometer. He smiled when he found the ear thermometer. That will make this ten times easier.
The boy was still asleep when he brought his findings to the living room. Asleep, but starting to stir. Remembering how light the boy was when he carried him in Peter rummaged through the pantry. Finding a cup-of-noodles, he decided to make it.
When he came back into the living room with the cooked noodles and a sandwich for himself the boy's crystal blue eyes were on him.
"Hello." Peter said coming to a stop at the end of the sofa.
The boy curled into himself, forming a ball at the opposite end of the sofa. "Whatever it is you want me for I won't do it."
Peter sighed as he sat down on the sofa. He wasn't ready for this.
The boy spoke still staring at Peter. "Ruticker lied. I can't forge anything. I'm not that Caffrey dude he said I was."
Peter's heart jumped. It wasn't Caffrey. This sick, abused and far too thin kid was not Caffrey. Caffrey was still out there being his 'devil-may-care' self. Peter felt oddly comforted by that.
"What is your name then?"
"George Danvary." The name was spit out quickly and without any hesitation.
Peter's gut wrenched as the now familiar feeling hit. George Danvary was one of Caffrey's aliases. "Neal"
"I'm not Neal."
Peter stopped and looked at the boy. His blue eyes were full of fear as they glared out from beneath his knees which were held close to him. Peter understood now. If they, the FBI, didn't know what Caffrey looked like maybe Caffrey didn't know what he looked like.
"Who do you think I am?" Peter asked slowly, calmly.
"I… What?" The boy asked, confused.
"Who do you think I am?"
The boy stared at him, for what seemed like forever, before answering slowly as if he was still confused. "Ruticker called you Lead."
Peter nodded. "I'm FBI. Lead was my cover."
At the mention of FBI, the boy's head shot up. "FBI?"
"Yes." Peter said nodding.
"Prove it!" The boy demanded looking every bit authoritative.
Peter sighed. He wasn't about to go get his badge. "My name is Peter Burke."
The boy's eyes grew big. "I… I still don't believe you." The boy said hesitantly.
"Okay." Peter said calmly and slowly. "You've sent me cards over the last year and a half. That's how long I've been chasing you. Those same cards always have a hand drawn or a hand painted picture on the front of them."
"Did you ever figure it out?" The kid asked having accepted the truth.
"Figured what out?" Peter asked, confused.
The boy sighed, looking resigned. "Nothing. It doesn't matter anymore."
Worry etched its way into Peter. "Neal-"
"Am I going to jail?" The boy interrupted sounding every bit his age.
"I… I don't know. You're a lot younger than we thought you were."
"Oh."
Silence seemed to tick on for an eternity.
"But, hey, let's not worry about that now." Peter said trying to get the kid out of his glum. Which, frankly, was making Peter uncomfortable. "Let's see if we can get that fever of yours down. We'll just see where it is at." As he spoke he brought the ear thermometer up to the kid's ear.
The boy shied away from it, moving sideways to avoid it. "No."
Peter swallowed. "I need to know your temperature. This just goes in your ear to find out for me." When the boy still didn't budge Peter held the thermometer out to him. "You can do it if you want. This part just goes in your ear. You push this button and it'll beep at you when it's done."
Caffrey studied Peter before carefully taking the thermometer and putting it in his ear. His eyes stayed glued to Peter as he held the device in his ear.
When it beeped he handed it back. Peter frowned when he read it. "We defiantly need to try and cool you down."
Grabbing a packet of pills and the water bottle he handed them to the boy.
"What are they?"
"Tylenol. It'll help your fever to go down."
The boy pushed the pills away. "I'm not taking those. I'm allergic. Unless you want me puking my brains out while my throat constricts and I seize and my heart races I'm not taking those."
Peter blinked. He didn't know an allergic reaction to Tylenol could do that. "Okay. Yeah, you are not taking these." He said while putting the pills back on the coffee table. "You are going to drink that water and eat this, though." He said giving him the styrofoam cup of noodles.
The boy's nose crinkled at the food. "I'm not really hungry but thanks." He held the cup out for Peter to take back.
"At least drink the broth. You are way too skinny to not be hungry." When the boy's nose crinkled some more Peter offered him his sandwich. "Drink the broth, maybe eat the noodles, or you can eat the sandwich. Either way you are eating something."
The boy raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I'll drink the stupid broth. You don't have to try and poison me." He sipped the broth. "What is that anyway? It smells foul."
Peter smirked, taking a bite of the sandwich in question. "Deviled Ham."
The boy gagged. "You're going to make me sick."
"You already are sick."
"Harr, harr." The boy smiled before taking another sip of his broth.
Peter smiled. "Stay here. I'm going to get you a cold washcloth. We really do need to try and get that fever down."
"I'm barefoot. You really think I'm going to run?"
"I'm sure you'd be able to find a way to." Peter said making his way to the kitchen.
"Thank you, Peter." It was said genuinely, with just a hint of teasing.
Peter smiled.
When he came out a few minutes later he half expected the kid to be gone, but he was wrong. The boy was sitting on the sofa, with his feet on the rug, but still snuggled into the blanket. He had found the remote and was now watching a documentary on whales.
"Do you know what Herman Melville is famous for?" The kid asked after taking another mouthful of broth.
Peter sat down and put the wet washcloth on the boy's forehead before answering, confused as to where the question had come from. "Melville? Is he the guy who wrote Moby Dick?"
"Yeah. That is what he is famous for. Do you know that same novel ruined his writing career? People thought he was nuts. Thought he was promoting paganism and it was really different from what he had written before. Really from anything that was being written at the time."
Peter was impressed. A young teenager who cared about American Literature. Then again it was Caffrey. "Well, it is a big book."
The kid rolled his eyes without ever taking them away from the tv. Though Peter could tell they weren't really watching anything. "It's a novel, Peter, not a short story. Read Bartleby, the Scrivener if you want a short story."
"'I would prefer not to.'" Peter quoted.
The smile that lite the boy's face was worth it. "You've read it?"
Peter chuckled. "Once. In college. That line always stuck with me."
"Yeah, it has a way of doing that." The boy said quietly.
"I didn't know, by the way, that Moby Dick was such a failure when it was written."
"Yeah" The boy took another sip of his broth before he continued. "A bull sperm whale really did hit a whaleship and left its crew abandoned on the open sea. The Essex sunk in November 1820. Melville actually met both the survivors. There were only two by the time they were rescued."
Peter watched the boy's eyes flicker shut before opening again. The boy was falling asleep.
"Edger Allan Poe's only novel The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket was probably also influenced by the Essex. At the very least in the cannibalism that happened after the ship sank."
Peter swallowed, staring at his half eaten sandwich before putting it down.
"Poe's really sick. You know that Peter? He was one creepy dude." The boy said almost dropping his cup.
"Okay, that's enough, Neal." Peter said, taking the boy's cup, which he was happy to note was half way empty, out of the boy's hand. "Just go to sleep."
The boy yawned as he drew his feet back up onto the sofa and leaned over to the armrest. "Okay."
Peter watched the boy. He was out like a light. Becoming boneless, like only those in a deep sleep can, in just minutes.
Shaking his head Peter sighed as he turned the channel to a game. This kid is a strange one.