He didn't need Burke to tell him he had lost his witness… Even if Caffrey survived the injury, there was no way he would testify now. He would cut and run… men like him didn't do personal risk. Not like this and not without a big payout. Reynolds swore under his breath, as he strode into the New York hospital.
The conversation with the other agent had been brief. Clearly Burke was not in the mood to discuss the situation on the phone, his answers clipped and sharp. All Reynolds got from him was that there had been a sniper. A hospital and room number were the only indication his witness was alive. So here he was at Columbia University Medical Center wandering through this maze of a place to find the room. He did feel responsible for this, despite his dislike for Caffrey. He had allowed his personal feelings about the man to affect his job. He should have arranged full protection as soon as he talked to the trucker, but he had been reluctant to believe Caffrey could be innocent in this. There was of course no denying that now.
He shifted the file under his arm, trying not to think too much about the pictures it contained. The boy in those pictures was barely recognizable as the man he met in France. He wanted to believe that Caffrey had somehow deserved it but… d*** he looked young and helpless, and that made it hard to convince himself. It appeared for some reason that Caffrey had taken the brunt of the beating… if the number of fractures could be believed. That disturbed Reynolds. Caffrey's ability to manipulate people should have directed the worst of the pain away from himself. So why did the opposite seem to be true? It just didn't track with what he knew about the man, he thought as he finally found the room.
With a deep breath he stepped inside. Not surprisingly Burke was there, in the corner speaking quietly into his phone. Reynolds glanced at the man in the bed and cringed slightly, he didn't look good at all, Three days after the incident and an oxygen mask still covered his mouth and nose, right arm immobilized, 2 IVs, a drainage tube in his chest… he didn't stir as the door closed. Thomas' conscience dug at him…he could have prevented this.
Reynolds turned his eyes away as Burke ended his call.
"How is he?" he asked …it was a stupid question but he had to say something.
"They took the ventilator out this morning… he's in and out… but baring any complications he's going to make it."
"That's good."
"I told him you were a good agent… that you would do your job and protect him." Reynolds swallowed. The accusation in Burke's tone stung. The urge to defend himself rose in his throat but he pushed it back.
"I messed up. I should have listened to you. I have a protection detail ready… until the Marshals get things arranged to relocate him." The laugh surprised him. Reynold met the other agent's eye "What?"
"Neal doesn't trust the marshals… you send him to Wit Sec you will never see him again."
"I've accepted that he won't testify. I still have a responsibility to make sure he isn't hurt … at least… not anymore by what he told us."
"I wouldn't write off the possibility of him sticking this out just yet… Neal wants justice for his friends. I know you don't believe that but…" Burke sighed "The Marshals would be a mistake. Trust me, he has no respect for them."
"Why not?"
"He has his reasons."
"Which you aren't going to tell me, right?"
"Right. I let this happen to him… I'm not going to follow that up by betraying his trust." The intensity in Burke's voice surprised Reynolds. "You really should read the rest of his file… beyond one word in a psych profile." Burke met his eye "you might find some things that would surprise you."
"I'll get right on that." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice "look I intend to do my job but I don't have to like him… I will never like him!" His voice rose in pitch, then dropped back when the sleeping man stirred and Burke shot him an angry look. "But given the contents of this file…I have a certain responsibly to him"
Burke held out his hand, Thomas hesitated. "It's not pretty." Burkes jaw clenched but he took the file and opened it. The silence that followed while he flipped through the pictures and documents was tense. Finally Burke murmured something that sounded like "oh Neal…"
"His injuries… from the beating..." Thomas began "I keep trying to think why he appears to have… been beaten so much more severely than the others." Burke's knowing smile caught his eye. "You have an idea?"
"Let's say I'm not entirely surprised."
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Neal pushed himself up carefully on his left elbow, trying to ignore the angry gopher that burrowed furiously through his chest. He fumbled for the button to raise the bed a bit more. Then dropped his head back against the pillow to breathe for several long seconds. It was quiet, he was apparently alone. He didn't know why that surprised him but he seemed to remember someone being here whenever he woke up, though admittedly the memories were pretty vague. He felt more awake now than he had before. Breathing hurt but pain meant alive and judging by the tube in his chest and the bandages that was important to remember.
He tried to recall what happened but nothing came to mind. He remembered flying back to New York… he remembered he was back… at… June's. There had been agents there right? He tried to recall their names… a sudden thought struck him. They were there to protect him. If he was here… he swallowed, trying not to panic. Faces came to mind suddenly… young smiling faces. He tried to push them aside.
The door opened softly. Peter stepped inside and smiled at him. He looked concerned
"Hey." Neal tried for a grin
"Hi…" Peter seemed to be trying to read him. "You ok?"
"I'm fine."
"Right" Peter grinned "you have looked around right?"
"Point taken." He gingerly touched the tube "I'm alive…Judging by this… I'm guessing that's doing pretty good."
"Don't touch that." His hand move to catch Neal's. It was an automatic response. Neal shot him a questioning look "Sorry… the last couple of days…I imagine it's not really comfortable."
"Not really… how long has it been?"
"6 days." Silence followed that.
"Peter? he hesitated not sure he really wanted to know" The agents who were with me… are they…?"His fist gripped the thin blanket, his whole body tense.
"They're fine …it was a sniper… one shot. We found where it came from but… the shooter was long gone… we're still looking."
"At least no one was hurt" he sank back into the pillow relieved sigh on his lips. He didn't expect the sudden anger in Peter's eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"Someone was hurt Neal. You."
"You know what I meant."
"I do." Peter shot him that look, the one that said he felt like he was talking to a child. "You meant no one important…"
"Not exactly but…"he managed to shrug his left shoulder without wincing. Peter looked frustrated again
"Neal I want you to listen to me. Really listen." He nodded "You are important. Your life counts too."
"I know that."
"DO YOU?!" Neal couldn't stop the flinch. Peter's voice dropped immediately "I'm sorry. It just…I don't think you get it. I wasn't upset last year… I was devastated."
"Peter…" he stopped not sure what to say.
"Do you remember the last thing you said to me before you… left?" He waited for the nod "Well I don't think you understand… you're my… best friend too and I though we lost you."
"I'm sorry… I just wanted to be sure… you didn't get hurt…"
"Well I did. We all did, because we lost you. You know how much it hurts to lose someone you care about. You put us all though that. Now you keep making light of that."
"I'm not trying too…" his voice faltered under Peter's glare… then looked away when the look softened to affectionate exasperation.
"I believe you… you honestly don't get how much you were missed." Neal struggled for a way to answer that…
"I'm sorry…I should have remembered that you always did see me as more than … than I am" Peter's sigh drew Neal's eyes to his face "Even you sometimes admitted … I'm not exactly an asset to society."
"Neal…'
"Reynolds is right about me, you know. I'm a sociopath… the things I've done… I don't feel guilty. I want to. I try to but I just don't…"
"I read the same psychological profile he did. It doesn't say that."
"It doesn't?"
"No… it say sociopathic tendencies…there is a difference. It goes on to say you don't fit the classic definition because instead of an over developed sense of self and a lack of empathy… you have low self-esteem and are highly empathic…"
"Low self-esteem? Really Peter?" he tried for a cocky grin but pain and exhaustion made it fall short.
"Admittedly you do a good job of hiding it." Peter sighed. He sounded like he was trying to be patient. "Sociopaths have no moral compass..."
"And I do?" his look was ironic
"You do. It doesn't always point north but …."
"Wrong things for the right reasons?"
"You should work on that." They both smiled. "I want you to meet my boy … when you're up to it."
"I'd like that."
"We named him Neal." The honest shock in his friend's eyes almost made Peter laugh.
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He stared at his right arm… he could see it there… could feel it, in a manner of speaking, pins and needles that never went away, but no matter how hard he tried it didn't move. He concentrated on the lifeless fingers trying to will them to wiggle… even just a tiny bit. Something close to fear coiled around his heart. His hand… his right hand would not move. "Don't panic" he told himself "maybe it has something to do with the pain meds." but his heart sank despite his rationale. The thought of a lifetime of never holding a pencil, a paintbrush, a chisel… made him feel sick. It couldn't be true, it couldn't. Suddenly it was very, very cold. His heart hammered in his throat. "Breathe" he reminded himself.
A light tap on the door brought his head up as his smile slipped into place. Dr. Andrews stepped into the room…
"How are you this morning, Mr. Collins?"
"Better since they took that …thing… out of my side." The doctor smiled.
"I would imagine… how is your pain?"
"Fine."
"Mr. Collins… must I remind you to be honest with me. I am well aware of the damage to your body."
"I can handle it." He steeled himself…
"You need to take the medication… allow yourself to heal." The doctor pinned him with a look before continuing. "How's your breathing. O2 levels are staying above 90 for the most part but… they are still dipping more often than I like… I'll increase the oxygen we have you on" Neal nodded…giving a tight smile. His lungs were healing… he knew it would take time but they would be fine… his worries lay elsewhere...
"Doctor… can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"My arm…" he trailed off as he caught the sympathetic look. With a gulp he forced himself to go on "its permanent isn't it."
"Honestly…" the doctor took the limp appendage in his hand, studying it "I don't know… the nerve isn't severed, but it is clearly damaged. You have some feeling in it, correct?"
"Like it's asleep."
"We need to do another surgery to repair your shoulder blade… that may help. And you can probably begin therapy in a couple of days… We will know more in a few weeks." His tone was gentle as he continued "but yes, it is possible it may be permanent. I'm sorry."
"Thank you." He could not force himself to smile but he met the doctor's eye without quailing.
"It also may not be… it is possible you could regain some or even most of the use of it. I honestly don't know. I don't want you to worry too much about it right now… Be patient Mr. Collins. You have been through a major trauma. Give your body time to… adjust" he nodded again
"But you don't anticipate me ever regaining full use of my hand?"
"Full use? I'm afraid that is unlikely… there will at the very least be some loss of fine motor control." The doctor looked appropriately sympathetic as he lifted the lifeless arm back into the sling… "I am sorry."
"I appreciate your candor." He didn't let the stark terror in his mind show in his face. The familiar mask fell in place while his mind spiraled… never paint again, never draw, no more card tricks…no more… no more… no more… the tears came when he was alone. He wept silently until he drifted off into darkness.
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Peter watched Neal tickle his little boy…lift the blanket to play peak-a-boo as the baby giggled. He had imagined this moment with such pain for so long and now…he couldn't stop grinning. It didn't matter that they were in a hospital room or that Neal's movements were painfully stiff as he raised his left hand to caress the baby's cheek. Neal grinned brilliantly as Elle snapped a picture of the 2 of them.
"Hon… get in there with them. I want one with all of my boys." He sat carefully on the edge of the bed and gently draped his arm around his friend's shoulder. The moment was perfect, he thought.
There was so much wonder in his young friend's face as he played with his namesake. He was clearly thrilled.
"He's amazing, Elizabeth… just like his mother." His smile was so bright Peter could almost ignore the something else that lurked in the back of those blue eyes…almost.
"You ok? Are you hurting? Maybe Elle and I should take him home and let you rest."
"I'm fine. I like him here." He flinched slightly as the baby bounced excitedly on the bed. "He takes my mind off… all of this" the hint of sadness in his voice spoke volumes. Suddenly he knew, Neal knew. Peter thought about letting it pass. This moment was so perfect… his wife, his son and his best friend together but…he couldn't ignore it.
"Your arm?" Neal just nodded "I'm-"
"Please don't say you're sorry"
"Ok I won't… Neal…" he swallowed "I can't imagine how… but I know … I know you. You are not going to let it destroy you."
"I'll be ok."
"You will… but you don't have to be right now. Give yourself time"
Neal smiled sadly "yeah that's what the doctor said… that I might get some use of it back"
"I'm sure you will."
"Best case Peter…" he paused to control the lump in his throat, to contain the tears that tried to get away from him. "I will still lose some … I'll never be able to paint again… not with any skill…'
"You'll be back to painting eventually, one way or the other. I don't doubt that for a minute. You will figure it out"
"Thanks Peter." He sincerely hoped his friend was right but… absently he picked up the pencil on the bedside table…toying with it sadly. The fingers on his left hand were clumsy… they didn't have the skill his right hand used to have, but they did function …maybe in time…