The rain continued to come, sometimes light, sometimes heavy. When they parked along the side of Beale Street and made their way down to the wharf, the umbrella did little to keep them dry as the coastal winds, never ceasing, drove the rain in at them at all angles.
There was little traffic on the street and less at the Wharf itself. The few automobiles in the dirt lot off to the left near the rocky shore were likely those of the fishermen who had departed earlier. Perhaps one was that of Mrs. Devaine or even a cook or two. They'd know soon enough.
A wooden sign with Lobsters, Clams, Scallops, and Fish in crude white letters greeted them, the wide board wooden sign high on the narrow end of the long, two-story building that sat just at the wharf's entrance. There was a single green door to the side of the sign, accessed by a worn metal staircase. Peter wondered if this was the rooms Neal occupied.
Another sign, much smaller in size, with the same white letters spelling out The Fish House hung over the wooden walkway along the long side of the building. The entrance to the restaurant no doubt. There were several tables, presumably for outdoor dining on better days. In the steady rain, it was hard to see beyond to the business end of the wharf. Peter could make out the shape of a wooden crane, several piles with ropes, and boxes of different sizes. This was where the Lonely Mariner would later dock.
"You sure about this?" He asked Elizabeth as they came under the protection of the building's awning.
She shook off the umbrella and closed it. "Of course, I'm sure. Neal needs us."
He handed her the oversized bag. "Record everything and be careful."
She gave him a quick kiss. "Take your own advice. I'm doing an interview, not breaking and entering."
"True enough," he replied. "Meet you back at the car."
A moment later, Elizabeth stepped inside The Fish House. It was a rustic venue, to be sure. Heavy rough wooden tables were scattered about, the only real light coming from the back of the restaurant. The sounds told her work for lunch was already underway.
As she made her way in that direction, she was stopped in her tracks by a floor to ceiling mural. A mural she knew without doubt Neal had painted. She didn't know how she knew, but she did. It was of a fishing trawler, its blue hulk tossed on white cresting waves and beneath dark clouds. White letters against the blue hull indicated the vessels name: The Lonely Mariner.
"Can I help ya?" A voice sounded from behind her. Elizabeth, having turned to admire the painting, whipped around and settled her eyes on a large, matronly woman.
"I was just admiring the artwork," she said truthfully. "It's really very well done."
The woman's eyes softened as she wiped her hands on her apron. "Yes, our John has quite a talent." Our John? Perhaps she'd been wrong. The woman nodded across the room, and Elizabeth followed her gaze to where another mural was underway. "He's working on that one now. Must have painted half of last night 'cause he's added quite a bit since supper." Her weathered face creased in a slight frown as she studied the calmer depiction of the Mariner. "Poor boy sometimes has trouble sleeping," she confided. "And painting seems to bring him some peace."
"If he your son?" Elizabeth asked, now convinced the artist was none other than Neal Caffrey. "Because he certainly is skilled."
She shook her head. "No, but I wish he was. That boy needs a family; he's as of lost a man as I've ever seen." Lost. Elizabeth's mind echoed the word. It was what she'd heard in Neal's voice when he had called Peter. "But he's the finest kind, even if he is from away."
Finest, she agreed even though Peter might balk. "From away?"
The woman gave a tight smile. "Sorry. I mean, he's not from Maine. How can I help you, young lady?"
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Peter made quick work of the door. No special equipment was needed: his American Express did the trick. An indication that the man living inside did not have Neal's secretive and suspicious nature. Clicking the door shut behind him, he took in the room before him. Immediately, his eyes fell on the easel at the far end of the long, narrow room. It was placed near a row of windows that looked out over the water. A stool was there, and a low table holding supplies was beside it. A white sheet covered whatever piece Neal was currently working on. Along the floor beneath the windows, several completed pieces were leaned. A storm-tossed ship, a seascape, and a pier with a building that greatly resembled the one he was standing in caught his eye. Neal might have forgotten his name, but he'd not forgotten how to paint.
He pulled his eyes from the paintings and checked the open door to his immediate right. A bathroom. He stepped inside the tiny space. It held just a toilet, a roll of toilet paper gracing its top, a sink, and a shower. A single towel hung on the wall. There was no cabinet above the sink. No shelves. A bottle of something, perhaps shampoo, with a cloth over the top, sat on the shower floor. A trash can nestled in between the toilet and sink. There was a small brown basket on the sink. It held a toothbrush, toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, a tube of antibiotic ointment, and a bottle of pain reliever. A cup and a small black comb lay on the edge of the sink. He opened the small cabinet beneath the sink to find extra toilet paper and some cleaning supplies. He grinned at the can of Odor Block shoe spray. Who knew? The great Neal Caffrey had stinky feet. He closed the cabinet, glancing around one last time. The room held only the most basic of necessities. No cologne or aftershave. He frowned, glancing around once more. No shaving creme or razors, either. Another difference between Neal Caffrey and the man who resided here.
He left the bathroom and opened the door opposite to reveal a closet. A hook inside the door held an empty canvas bag. Less than a dozen items hung on the rod, all dark and heavy. Work clothes. There were no fancy suits, no ties or hats. He examined each article of utilitarian clothing, checking the pockets of the three pairs of denim jeans and the woven shirts. He glanced down. On the floor were a pair of sneakers and worn boots. Behind them, at the back of the closet, was a closed cardboard box. Peter bent down, moved the shoes, and pulled out the box. He raised the flaps to see the contents.
His breath caught at the sight of a watch, its hands frozen at 7:10. It was the one Neal had worn that day. The one that had a microphone and GPS tracker. The one that had ceased functioning when Neal had gone into the water. He picked it up and laid it aside to explore the box's other contents. He grasped the fabric the watch had rested on and pulled it from the box. Holding it up, he realized it was a dark blue jacket; the one Neal had worn the last time he'd seen him. His blood went cold at the sight of the small, bullet-sized hole piercing the top of the left lapel. Hesitantly, he flipped it to see a matching hole, albeit larger, on the back. Neal had been shot that day, and the bullet had gone straight through him. Inches lower, and it would have hit his heart or, at the very least, punctured his lung.
Peter had heard shots ring out and had prayed Neal had avoided them. But when Neal hadn't been found, he'd feared the worst- that the bullets had struck home and taken Neal's life. His CI. His responsibility. His friend. He sat there, frozen, holding the garment in shaking hands. Neal had been shot that day, but it hadn't killed him. He had gone into the water but hadn't drowned alone in a cold ocean. He was alive, working on a fishing boat on the coast of Maine. It still seemed unbelievable. Neal alive. Here. And he'd see him this afternoon. He took a breath and shook himself from his thoughts. He had to get busy. He needed to be quick.
The rest of the box was empty. He checked the pockets of the jacket and, finding nothing, carefully replaced the items, closed the box, and put it back where he'd found it.
After closing the closet door, he moved into the larger living chamber. To the right was a small kitchenette with a table and two chairs. The counters were clear, the table unadorned. A quick exploration left Peter certain Neal hadn't remembered he could cook. A hall tree of rough wood and design was in the small space on the other side. He checked the pockets of the items hung there. A receipt from the previous week for $29 in art supplies from a place called The Painters' Palette was all he found.
He glanced around the larger room. Like the bathroom, it was utilitarian. Spartan. Very unlike the apartment Neal kept at June's. The only thing Neal-like was the painter's perch at the end of the room. There was a bed with a bench at the foot, a chest of drawers, a large overstuffed chair with a small table beside it, and a writing desk. Seeing where his time would be best spent, he crossed the room to the desk. A spiral notebook and pen lay on the desktop. He opened it and immediately recognized the small, neat print he'd seen so many times before.
Tilly says writing might help. I don't see how, but I'm willing to try anything. They brought me in from the sea, but even after five weeks, I am still adrift.
It was dated November 22. Just over a month after he'd been lost off the coast of Manhattan Beach.
He flipped through page after page of writing. At times, the print was less concise and controlled. Like the entry dated December 12.
I dreamed I was locked in a box. It was so dark I couldn't see anything. I could hardly move and felt like I couldn't breathe. I wanted to try to get out, but I knew something bad was out there, so I had to stay put and not make any noise. The sound of the ocean helps, and so does the cold sea air, but I know I won't be able to sleep. I think I'll go paint.
The last entry was from the night before. The print was neat.
Peter is a real person, and he knows who I am. He called me Neal. That doesn't sound right, but he was sure that was my name. I don't think he's my brother. I don't know who he is to me, and he didn't say. I should have asked him more questions, but I was afraid to. He's coming Tuesday. I've wanted answers for so long, but now I feel like running away. But where would I go? Is knowing worse than not knowing? Not even going to try to sleep yet. I'll go paint.
Peter took a shakey breath. Neal had kept a journal.
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Good grief, Peter," Elizabeth said as he approached. The rain had slacked, and she was standing against the rental, folded umbrella in hand. "I was worried!"
"I'm fine, El," he assured her. "Let's get back to the room and talk."
And read. He'd snapped photos on his phone for ten straight minutes. He hoped to God they were in focus.
Elizabeth handed him the keys with a frown. "What is it, Peter? What's wrong?"
So much was wrong, but more was right. Neal was alive.
"It's just...a lot to process."
She nodded, then circled to the passenger door. "He goes by John here. And he still paints."
"I know."
"He's done these amazing murals in the restaurant," she said as she closed the car door. "According to Mrs. Devaine, he paints when he can't sleep."
Peter thought of the journal. How many entries had ended with the words I think I'll go paint.
He started the engine. "I know that, too."