Chapter 4

Neal's information proved to be not only accurate, but remarkably detailed, and, on the strength of it, a SWAT team was dispatched that night. They moved in swiftly and efficiently, encountering less resistance than expected, maybe because of the timing of the assault. There was a brief standoff involving Jimmy Giordano's bodyguard, but it was resolved without loss of life. Most importantly, Peter Burke was found unconscious, badly injured but alive, in one of the upstairs rooms. Ironically enough, the wound he'd received in resisting the kidnapping had probably saved his life. Needing him alive for the information they believed he had, they had mostly held off questioning him until he was strong enough to withstand such rigours. He was speedily relocated to the nearest hospital.

For several days, Peter floated in a netherworld of ebbing and rising pain, surfacing just long enough to see El's loving face before sinking back down. These periods of semi-consciousness became more frequent until he finally broke free from the chemical and physical bonds holding him under. Every muscle felt heavy and unresponsive as he tensed involuntarily, trying to pin down the sensation of danger that instantly flooded his mind. He would have thought he was in a hospital with the pervasive smell of antiseptic, the regular beeping beside him, and the press of a tube in his nose, but he had a vague but insistent memory of being tied to a bed somewhere less hospitable, with an IV in his arm, surrounded by unfriendly voices.

"Peter? Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

He would know those beautiful tones anywhere, and his eyes opened automatically in response, his heart jumping slightly at the sight of her as it always did.

"Hey, El." The rasp that emerged didn't sound remotely like his voice, but his wife seemed to appreciate it.

"Oh, Peter." Her lips stretched in a wobbly smile, and her eyes flooded with tears, and he immediately felt terrible for whatever he'd done wrong that had caused that heartbroken expression.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay, don't worry. Everything's going to be fine. I love you so much."

"Love you too," he managed to whisper, trying to keep his eyes open against the overwhelming pull of gravity.

"I know. Just get some rest, you're going to be okay." The phantom touch of her lips on his forehead lulled him back to sleep.

A thin current of pain burning through his veins woke him the next day in a far more coherent state of mind. Turning his head, he could see Elizabeth asleep on a cot nearby, a cloud of dark hair half-obscuring her face. The sight brought an automatic smile to his. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a better position, but that slight movement caused a shaft of agony to slam through his chest.

His reaction to that must have set off a blinking light or alarm somewhere, because his room soon flooded with medical personnel. They insisted on subjecting him to a battery of tests and questions while he just wanted the opportunity to talk to his wife. Their only saving grace, in his opinion, was increasing the dosage of pain killers that dripped into his IV, enabling him to smile at El as they were finally left alone.

She moved to his side, accepting the hand he offered and kissing him long and softly. Up close, he could see the ravages of worry carved beside her bloodshot eyes, and now he could remember why he had to apologise.

It took a ridiculous effort to raise his hand, stroking his thumb down those tiny lines. "I'm so sorry, El. I never wanted you to have to go through this."

Deep blue eyes regarded him solemnly. "I hope to God I never get a phone call like that again. But ultimately, as long as you come back to me, I'll be okay. I'm just glad you're back."

"I'll always try to come back to you, El." He pulled her hand in for a kiss, since attempting to reach another part of her would be the equivalent of climbing Everest. Honesty also forced him to admit, "But I don't think I can take the credit this time, I can't even remember being rescued." He settled himself more comfortably as he sought to pull scattered and confused memories into focus. "How did they find me? Giordano seemed very confident that no one would even be looking."

"It's a long story," El returned evasively.

For once, Peter didn't notice. His mind had already skipped ahead, making connections. "It was Neal, wasn't it? He figured it all out."

El smiled and nodded, not trusting her voice as a devastating mix of gratitude, guilt, and worry clogged her throat.

A crazy warmth spread through him, and he relaxed against the pillows with a wide grin. "I knew it!" There was a poetic artistry, a symmetry to it. He was the only one who could find Neal, and Neal was the only one who could find him. There was also vindication. Many of his colleagues had mocked him for calling a conman his friend and partner, but he had faith that the young man was worth the derision.

"Has he been here? I don't remember seeing him. Oh, I suppose we're out of his radius. Well, I would have thought..." He glanced over at El. Her face was partly averted on the pretext of pouring a cup of water, but not enough to hide the sheen of tears in her eyes. A cold hand seemed to slither up his spine. "El? What's wrong? Oh, God, it's Neal. What's happened to him?"

He levered himself up on one elbow, ignoring the jolting pain that resulted from the maneuver and the accompanying frantic increase in pace of the beeping beside him. Suddenly, there was a nurse in the room, and El was on her feet, trying to gently push him back.

"Please stop. Neal is fine; it's you we're worried about." Peter had never rated himself highly on picking up marital signals, but ten years of marriage did give him some insight into when his spouse was being less than truthful.

"What aren't you telling me?" He suddenly noticed that the nurse had a syringe in her hand and was about to inject it into the IV. "No, please stop. I'm perfectly calm." He lay back down on the pillows to illustrate his point, but his thudding heart betrayed him. He could feel the sedative creeping through his veins and made one last appeal. "El, please. I have to know." But it was too late, the drug was pulling him under, and the last thing he saw, as the room seemed to slither sideways, was tears streaming down his wife's beautiful face.

Peter fought against the drug, limbs twitching with rebellion even in his enforced sleep, the sense of urgency following him down. He jerked awake several hours later to the feeling that something was terribly wrong, but the sticky webs of the sedative clouded his mind, preventing him from identifying the cause of his unease. As he twisted around and saw Elizabeth, the memories flooded back. "Don't let them do that again," he said thickly, hating the sensation of being out of control.

She nodded in agreement. There was evidence of recent tears, but her expression was composed and resolute. She squeezed the hand she was holding in reassurance. "I will tell you everything you want to know, but you need to relax and give yourself time to heal."

He tried to follow her instructions, but he could already hear his tension reflected in the thrice-damned heart monitor.

"Neal is alive," Elizabeth stated hurriedly, "And to the best of my knowledge, unhurt."

Relief wrangled with an uneasiness that coiled in his belly. There was a 'but' coming, and he made no interruptions to delay it.

"But," Elizabeth continued with palpable reluctance. "He has been put back in jail."

"No! Damn it!" He heard as well as felt his heart working overtime to make up for the beat it had skipped, and he shut his eyes in an effort to regain enough control not to set off any alarms while he assimilated the news. This was the thing he'd dreaded the most and worked so diligently to prevent. Despite his criminal proclivities, Neal didn't belong in jail. His gentle heart, brilliant mind and clever, nimble fingers had so much to offer. Neal was fit and agile, but he was no fighter, and the knowledge of what could happen to him, especially now he'd be seen as an informant, sent fear spiraling and twisting through his gut like a snake.

Someone had entered the room, and El was talking to them softly, but he paid no attention to their conversation. He concentrated on taking deep breaths, trying to displace the picture of the man who had so unaccountably become his best friend locked up in a cell.

As Elizabeth returned to his side, he opened his eyes, emotions battened down as tightly as he could manage. "Why?" he started without preamble. "You said he helped, that he was the one who found me. Why would they..." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Did he break in somewhere to obtain the information?" The idea that Neal would sacrifice his freedom for Peter's safety churned nauseously inside. He knew that Neal wouldn't hesitate to do it, despite his fear of being locked up again. He thought back to Neal's bravado-filled, "I don't care" when the agent had pointed out that the quixotic escape would cost him four more year in jail. The lie had been obvious. To someone as free-spirited and refined as Neal, the coarse living and restrictions of prison must be intolerable. The fact that he had survived almost four years with his soul intact was a miracle, or, more likely, a testament to his strength of character.

Elizabeth hastened to correct this misapprehension, even though the truth wasn't much better. "No, it's not that. Look, it's... it's complicated, and I really don't know all the details. I was more concerned about you." She took a deep breath, partly to compose herself and partly to organise her thoughts. "They thought you were dead," and despite how carefully she stated it and her best intentions, her throat closed up and tears sprang unbidden.

Peter heard the unvoiced subtext of 'I thought you were dead,' and immediately reached for his wife. El didn't resist. Needing the physical contact, but mindful of his injuries, she snuggled into his right shoulder and gave in to her emotions. Peter ignored the increasing dampness of his hospital gown and murmured a constant stream of apologies and loving consolations.

They stayed like that for a long time before El pulled away. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve before taking a tissue from a half-empty box on the bedside table and blowing her nose.

"El," Peter said helplessly, wanting to offer more comfort, but lost as to how to accomplish that under the circumstances.

She offered a tremulous smile, a shadow of her normal grin, and Peter was torn between wanting to spare his wife the further trauma of recitation and needing to know what had happened to his friend. Thankfully, after one last swipe at her cheeks, El continued without prompting.

"They arrested Neal for your murder."

"What! That's ridiculous, Neal would never hurt me! What kind of incompetent idiots are they employing nowadays!" He continued to rant in the same vein for several minutes until he caught sight of the smirk El was trying to suppress and trailed off sheepishly.

"Oh, don't stop on my account. I said more or less the same thing when they told me. I was actually rude to poor Reese."

As the first wave of anger and incredulity receded, Peter actually found himself relieved and he settled back, exhausted by the emotional turmoil he'd experienced. "You know, this isn't as bad as I feared. Clearly, I'm not dead, and he had nothing to do with the kidnapping so we should be able to get him out of there quickly."

Elizabeth didn't share his optimism, but hesitated to disclose her reservations now that her husband had calmed down. "You can talk to Reese about it tomorrow. As long as you feel up to it, he'll be coming in to take your statement."

Peter perked up slightly. "Call him and tell him to come in today."

However, El could see the white strain dusted around his mouth and had no intention of allowing anything that would jeopardize his recovery. "It can wait 'til tomorrow." She overrode Peter's immediate objection. "No, Reese is busy, and you need to rest."

Peter would probably have protested more if it hadn't been so damn difficult to keep his eyes open.