Before Peter could exit the office, his phone rang. Elliot didn't bother with the niceties but got right down to the point.

"We picked up Clay on the CCTV footage," he informed. "He walks as far as 52nd street; then he's joined by a man. Neither one of them show up on any camera after that."

Peter felt a wave of relief. Something, finally. "Description?"

"Caucasian male, age 20 to 40, shoulder-length dark hair. Color doesn't come through very well, but it looks like he's wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. No identifying logo or emblem we could see. About the same build as Clay, maybe a couple of inches shorter."

"Did Nathan seem to know him?"

"There was no indication of distress or concern," Elliot answered, "but we are going strictly off body language. There is no audio. But Clay didn't try to evade or get away from him and he didn't call for help."

So Neal hadn't thought the person posed a threat. That seemed strange, given he was afraid he was being targeted. So he must have known him.

"Are you running the image through the database?"

"The resolution is bad, Agent Burke. If I hadn't known Clay, I'm not sure I'd have even recognized him. I'm running it but not holding out much hope there. I've sent agents to canvas the area and see if anyone saw anything. It's possible if he frequents the area, someone can identify him from the photo. Where are you?" he asked. "If this man is someone you have encountered before, you might recognize him."

"I'm at the Gallery," he looked at Ms. McBride, then indicated the machine they'd just used. "Can I get a fax sent here?"

"Absolutely." A moment later, he'd relayed the number to Elliot, and less than a minute after that, the machine beeped, and the image came through. It was impossible to see any details in the man's features. He recognized Neal from sheer familiarity, but the man accompanying him rang no bells, distant or otherwise. As general as it was, running it through the database would turn up hundreds, if not thousands, of possible matches. Elliott was right; the best chance was that someone along the route would have either seen something or could give a name to the blurry figure beside Neal.

Ms. McBride studied the image in his hand. "That looks like Mr. Branson."

"Mr. Branson?" Peter echoed in disbelief. Could it be this easy? "You know this man?"

"Yes," she replied. "And so does Mr. Clay."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"Wakey, Wakey, Mr. Clay, your paint is getting thick..." the voice drifted to him from a distance, "and you know what that means..."

He knew what it meant; being strapped to the chair so more of his blood could be drained from his body. Neal kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore his captor's taunting. Despite the water, orange juice, sunflower seeds, and grapes Creed kept insisting he take in, his blood was being taken far quicker than it could be replenished. Neal guessed blood loss had landed him on the cold, hard floor. He didn't remember it happening; one minute, he'd been standing at the easel, trying to paint yet another sunset through blurry vision, and the next, he was on the floor.

He'd lost count of how many times Creed had taken blood from him. It seemed to be about every two to three hours. Once Creed had procured the first working batch, as he'd called it, he'd attached a manacle to his right foot connected to a chain secured to a metal ring on the far wall. He'd unbuckled the strap on his left wrist, stepped back, and told Neal to free the other hand. The only weapon he was brandishing was a taser, which he had used when Neal refused to return to the chair once they had lost the light. It wasn't the standard taser that caused your muscles to seize and left you immobile, in pain, but aware of your surroundings. This one had been excruciating for a few seconds, but everything had gone black. When he woke hours later, gagged and strapped to the wheelchair in total darkness, his head had pounded mercilessly.

Maybe he hadn't been drugged, after all, just electrocuted on the street. In broad daylight. Surely someone had seen something and reported it.

But if so, he wouldn't still be here. Damn New Yorkers.

Funny. There had been a time when he'd relied heavily on that trait of disinterest. But that was a different time, a different life.

He had missed the opening of Fresh Perspectives, but Peter would have been there and he would have known something was wrong. That gave him hope. Peter would be looking for him, and when Peter looked, he found. Again, in a previous life that had grated profusely. Now, it just brought him comfort.

He'd only been gone...he had to think...he'd been strapped to the chair for the night twice. So forty-eight hours? How much blood had he lost during that time? It looked like a lot as it drained down the tube, but it was hard to tell. Two pints? Three? How much was too much? He was nauseous, but that might be because he'd been forced to paint with his own damn blood for hours on end. But he was lightheaded, and his vision blurred on occasion. And, of course, he had passed out.

Creedance Brandson was mentally ill; there was no other way to explain his actions. He had to have been planning this for weeks, maybe longer. Neal had always prided himself on his ability to communicate and manipulate, when necessary, anyone. But Creed was a different beast altogether. Sometimes he was amiable as if this was some wonderful, shared experience they had planned together. At other times he was belligerent and angry, ranting at him with wild eyes for selling out his talent and betraying his fellow artists. And his mood could go from one to the other in the space of a minute. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Creed didn't seem intent on killing him outright, but Neal did not doubt that as the man devolved, it was where this collaboration would end.

With both of their deaths, if his instinct was right.

He could hear Creed droning on, the words he was saying not registering in his mind. He lay there without moving, giving no indication he had awakened. How long had he been unconscious? There was no clock in the room, and he'd had completely lost track of time. Was the day nearing the end? He dared not open his eyes to check. If he kept up the pretense of unconsciousness, would his captor leave him for the night and elect to start fresh at dawn? The floor was cold but more comfortable than the chair, and it would give him some recovery time. And with every hour that passed, Peter would be getting closer to finding him. All he had to do was survive until he did.