It was Monday night when Neal was yanked out of bed with a gloved hand over his mouth. The bed slid away underneath him and he landed hard on the wooden floor.
"Easy Neal, we're here to help."
"He thrashed out with his legs and caught one of the men in the groin. He lurched sideways, scrambling for the door, but was blocked by yet another masked man. This man caught him by the arms and marched him back into the center of the apartment, ignoring his struggles. Neal might as well have been fighting with a brick wall.
There was man sitting at the table, obviously a leader. Neal flashed through the database of people he had pissed off, but even in the library of those names, this man was a stranger. That didn't mean that Neal hadn't pissed him off.
He was forced to sit opposite and held there by his shoulders. There were five men in total. The leader, three men dressed in black (one hunched over, cupping his genitals) and one more slouched in the corner, bonelessly sprawled against the cabinet. It was a man judging by the rather expensive suit, but the head was covered with a thick canvas bag.
When he had finished testing the strength of the block of muscle holding him down, he nodded to the body in the corner, "Is he dead?"
The leader answered, "No, he's just heavily sedated, it should wear off fairly quickly."
The voice was familiar, and Neal scrutinized his face again, looking for some clue to the man's identity. He had broad features that didn't quite fit his wiry frame and a short bear immaculately cut and sculpted. He should know this man. "What's going on? Who are you?"
"You don't remember me? Well I guess that's not so surprising, I've changed quite a lot since Paris."
Neal inhaled sharply, "Campbell?"
"First prize!"
Of course he knew Martin Campbell. This was a man who was hard to mess with. Paris had been a long time ago, but even with time clouding his memory this was certainly not the face of the man who had left Neal stranded with Interpol closing in on their base of operations. "What do you want?" He asked, looking around at the four other men. He would have to run as soon as possible.
"Is that any way to treat an old friend?"
"I could ask the same," Neal said evenly.
Campbell grinned, baring his teeth like a shark. "I see your point. I want to apologize for that, but we're here to help you Neal."
"How?"
The older man gestured around the apartment. "We're going to break you out of here. You want that anklet off? You want to get out of town? Start a fresh game? I'm here to play fairy godmother."
Neal rubbed the anklet against the chair leg to make sure it was still on. Maybe if he could trigger it surreptitiously, the FBI would get here before Campbell could trap him into anything.
"In return for what?" He asked, letting his eyes wander again to the man in the bag. He thought he saw the canvas twitch. Any sign of life was good. Whatever that man had done to crack Campbell, the punishment would not be light.
"A long con. The greatest one of our generation, perhaps in the history of our profession."
"But you need me."
"That does seem to be the catch," Martin said, hissing a breath between his teeth.
"Why?"
"Before we start on the details, I need to know if you're in."
He didn't hesitate. "No."
"What?" This seemed to catch Campbell off guard, he sat up straight and seemed to really look at Neal for the first time.
"The last time I worked with you, people died and I'm not going to go down that road again. I appreciate the offer-"
"You don't seem to understand Caffrey, maybe you have forgotten, but I'm Martin Campbell. You're coming with me whether you agree to it or not. I would rather you came quietly and If I have to kill to make that happen, I will. The lovely lady you rented this place from? She's sleeping downstairs, her granddaughter is watching TV in her bedroom. Now I know you know I can and will kill them," he leaned in close, his broad face inscrutable, "if you don't cooperate."
Neal would have stood if not for the painful pressure keeping him in his seat, "If you hurt them-"
"I don't bother with hurting," The man said slowly, reaching a hand to his side where Neal knew he would be keeping his revolver, a curiously old fashioned weapon for a man so obsessed with cutting edge technology. "Their deaths will be quick. I can at least promise you that."
And Neal knew he meant it.
"Fine. Fine. I'll come."
"Good. But first," Campbell pushed a sheaf of papers across the table, "You need to write your suicide note."
Peter stared at the origami bird. He had found himself doing that more and more now. A week later and it still hurt. El helped, she was there when he needed her and gone when he wanted to be alone. He was sitting on the couch now with a beer and Satchmo, just looking at the little bird. It was a morbid routine. He just wished he knew what it meant. Was it some reference to Kate or Neal's mysterious past?
He would have asked Mozzie, but their last conversation hadn't exactly been open to further communication. He pulled on his beer again and picked up the crane again.
It had been unfolded in the lab so that the techs might dust for any prints hidden in the paper. The search had proved fruitless, only Neal's prints in the right places.
Peter had creased it again inexpertly, and between the thin crust of blood on the bottom and the rather cryptic instructions on the internet, it had turned out a little lopsided. Neal would have been offended.
He had had a week to investigate, to send out toxicology screens, blood tests, and autopsy results. Peter made sure it was done right. The envelope had been thoroughly analyzed, the gun traced back to the manufacturer, the blood and brain wiped from June's apartment.
A gun, Neal? Why a gun? That's just not like you.
Satchmo whined at him and Peter idly scratched his ears. He looked around the apartment at Elizabeth's art books and carefully selected paintings. She suffered as well, he knew that. Neal's letter to him was in an evidence bag on the mantelpiece and there would undoubtedly be a section inside for El. But he couldn't bring himself to open it and his wife seemed to understand.
Did he want to know what Neal had to say to him? Perhaps not. He would read it. It was important that he find closure, but to read that last scrap of Neal would be to acknowledge that the mind that had written it was gone. Blown away.
El had managed to pass Mozzie letter off to him on some secret rendezvous no doubt, but June read hers in her living room, Peter sitting opposite. He had asked her what Neal had said.
She had merely looked at him with the regal calm that she had perfected. "He said goodbye."
What the hell did the bird mean?
He frowned at it, turning it over in his hands. It was Neal, there had to be a meaning.
It could have been murder. Neal had enemies. Maybe this is a message.
No. He squashed that though every time it came up. He was trying to rationalize it. Neal killed himself. The evidence was telling him that, and he just didn't want to believe it. He was stronger than that.
Suddenly tired of staring at the scrap of ruined paper, he placed it back on the table and leaned into the couch. He should go join El in the bedroom for some much needed sleep.
He would have to go back to work tomorrow. He had taken three days off after he found Neal and today off for the cremation. There would be a new case on his desk by now and probably a request from the bureau for a psych evaluation.
Goddamn you, Neal.
"Done." Neal slid the paper back. He had worked for nearly three hours, but not once did Campbell move or talk. Dawn was just starting to break over the city when he finished. It had become harder to work as the man in the corner had started to groan.
Campbell read over the letters. Neal could see him searching for some kind of code or reference word. There was one sheet of paper left and while the other man was reading, he carefully folded it into the familiar crane. He placed it delicately on the table. Apparently satisfied, Campbell slid the papers into an off-white envelope and directed Neal to write the names of the recipients on the front.
"Peter will never believe this, you know that. What have you got up your sleeve?" Neal asked, licking the envelope to seal it. He hadn't put it past this man to make him write a suicide not just to facilitate his murder.
"Well, I bet you were wondering where I got my new face?" Campbell smiled as if to emphasize the words with a demonstration. He turned away from Neal and motioned to the two in the back, "You and you, help me get him up."
Neal assumed they were talking about him, but they hefted the fourth covered man onto the chair. The canvas bag was whipped off the tousled head and suddenly Neal was looking at himself. That was his face, his wide blue eyes contorted in terror and pleading helplessness, his ruffled hair and quiet desperate look.
"Who is he?" Neal asked quietly.
Martin snorted, "He's you. Please keep up."
They seated him at the table where Campbell had been sitting. Neal's double couldn't seem to be able to move as Campbell worked a silenced automatic pistol into his hand. Neal looked into his own panicked eyes. He barely registered the anklet being cut away.
"No," he said quickly, trying to get out of his chair, "Don't-"
The gun shot was muffled but Neal watched, almost in slow motion as the life drained from his doubles eyes. Blood and brain matter was sprayed all over the windows, but the bullet buried itself in the ceiling above the glass. Neal's shout was muffled by a strong hand clamped over his mouth.
Anonymous Becca: Haha! Your review was quite unique. I feel like if I make any part of this story untrue to police procedure, you're going to roll your eyes in righteous frustration and angrily slam your index finger down on the mouse like a judge with his favorite gavel. Thanks for keeping me on my toes, but I assure you, I'll try to make this fic as logical (and therefore as painless) as possible.
To the rest of you: Please review... I really need the encouragement. I'm a shameless review whore.