It was dark... absolutely pitch dark. Neal blinked a few times to try to see anything at all but there was nothing. He shifted slightly to control the panic rising up in him. Pain flared through his chest bringing the memories rushing back...
Keller... the gun... Hearing people talk about and around him, touching him, hurting him but being completely unable to respond to any of it. Then finally most horrifying of all Peter and Mozz... they seemed to think he was... He forced down the panic that tried to rise.
Neal sat up, trying to get some sense of where he was. His whole body ached in a way that hinted at having lain still for a while and everything felt ... shaky. His mouth felt as dry as a desert and his stomach felt hollow as though it had been days since it had anything in it.
Carefully he tried to stand. It took a few tries but he could manage it , only just. His legs trembled violently as he took a few tenative steps along the wall at his back. The smooth wall rubbed along bare skin... he was naked! Naked and cold he realized. He tried not to think to much about what that might mean... Instead he focused on mapping out his prison. Eight small steps brought him to a corner. A dozen more brought him to the next. He continued until he had found all four corners. The room was about fifteen foot square but he found nothing resembling a door.
Exhausted he sank back to the floor. Every breath felt like torture, like his chest would shatter if he continued. Neal closed his eyes and wished to drift into sleep.
"Peter will find me" he thought hopefully.
He could do this. He just had to stand up and walk downstairs... then step out into the sunshine of a beautiful summer day... Why was it such a bright sunny day? Peter dropped his head in his hands and tried to breath away the sick feeling in his stomach. His head ached from lack of sleep and his body ached from a bone deep weariness.
"Hon?" Elle called up the stairs. "Hon its time to go."
"I know" he replied quietly, but he really didn't want to go. That was the problem. Maybe if he didn't go he could pretend...
Funerals were never fun but this one... this one was all his fault. If only he had... run faster.. predicted Keller's move... if only he had... there were a thousand what ifs but none of them changed anything. He closed his eyes and drew a slow deep breath. It had to be done. as much as he hated it... as much as he wished he could go back to four days ago and do... something... anything differently... wished he would have could have at least found the words to ... Neal was gone and nothing... nothing was going to change that.
Peter slowly walked down the stairs. Elle gave him a gentle look as tears glazed her eyes.
"Do you want me to drive?" she asked, " so you can look over your speech again?"
"No, I'll be ok." he took another breath and sighed. He would be ok ... eventually. At least that's what everyone kept saying but... right now... right now... he closed his eyes and slid into the driver's seat.
He had no way to track time but it felt like hours passed before the room suddenly flooded with light. Neal blinked violently trying to see through the sudden glare. Fifteen by fifteen polished steel box. No visible door. A blank canvas sat in the middle of the room. Beside it high resolution photos of a painting. Neal's bleary eyes couldn't quite make out which one from where he slumped on the floor.
The voice was as unexpected as the light and Neal jumped slightly as it called his name.
"Who wants to know?" he asked. Whoever was holding him clearly knew who he was but... that didn't mean he had to make it easy for them.
"We know exactly who you are." the voice snarled coldly "and you are ours forever." That answer sent a shiver up his spine.
"I have friends who will find me." he answered... as much for himself as for the voice.
"Not any more Mr Caffery..." the voice laughed cruelly "Don't you remember? You are dead."
"I don't believe you." Neal firmly pushed aside the memory of a detached voice naming time of death... of his friends mournful tones... Mozz breaking down in to tears
"It doesn't matter if you believe it or not... " the voice replied. " You are dead. There is no escape, no one will ever look for you. This is your eternal punishment."
"You're telling me h*** is a steel box? With arts and crafts?" he tried for levity but his voice shook slightly. "not this time." Peter's pained tone as he tore apart Mozzie's desperate rambling echoed in Neal's mind.
"You were a forger in life Mr Caffrey... now you will spend eternity copying the work of real artists. Now get to work."
"What if I refuse?" Neal answered defiantly. The voice did not respond but sudden pain flared through his entire body, as blinding light assaulted his eyes, and a cacophony of sound blasted his ears. As abruptly as it started the agony stopped, leaving him lying, gasping on the floor, limbs twitching slightly and senses reeling.
"Begin." the voice commanded again. Neal struggled to rise to do as he was told because... well because what else could he do, but his trembling limbs were heavy and uncoordinated and the pain in his chest was unbearable. It took three tries to sit up. Even more to find his feet. The agony burning in his chest reminding him of the gun... of the sound of bones breaking under the hands on his sternum... a chill that had nothing to do with the temperture snaked up his spine as he glanced down at the unblemished skin on his chest... it wasn't true. He refused to believe he was dead. Whoever was holding him was messing with his head. That's all this is, he told himself as he slowly pushed off the wall and shuffled weakly to the easel... "I just have to get a message to Peter or Mozz. They will find me." Neal repeated it desperately in his mind. "Peter will find me."
He tried not to think about it as he lay stiffly in his bed, but the images assaulted him every time he closed his eyes. He'd only caught a glimpse through the doors of the doctors working so hard to save his friend, but Peter would never forget it. A dozen scrub clad figures scurrying around the silent body on the table. The blood that seemed to cover everything. The machine screaming out the alarm... Wires and machines and the terrible emptiness in that expressive face. Peter blinked it away and tried to picture Neal in a better place. Finally at peace, happy and free in a world that was kinder to him than this one had been. It didn't really help. No matter how hard he tried all he could ever see was his friend ... bleeding... dying...
"You're my best friend..." he heard the breathless words in his mind a thousand times a day. Why couldn't he answer them... why couldn't he... He let the kid die without ever knowing how important he was. How much he meant to Peter... all because he was afraid... afraid of this. In that moment he thought... I have to be calm... hopeful to give him strength to hold on. All it really did was ... let him die without knowing.
Turning on his side Peter wept silently in the dark.
Putting the finishing touches on Rembrandt's the Jewish bride Neal carefully placed his message to his friends in the strokes on the father's shoulder. "Help me!" he silently pleaded. "Please help me." The pain he was in was nearly unbearable after standing for so long. He was so far beyond tired he couldn't form a coherent thought, his eyes burned with weary strain. Dry lips had cracked hours ago, and his stomach had mostly given up complaining.
"There it's finished." he said aloud to the silent room. "Now what?"
The voice didn't answer. Instead, once more the pain flared through his body, The lights flared and the sound blared stealing what little strength he had left. His legs collapsed and his body convulsed with the pain! He couldn't breathe through the agony that flared in his breast! Darkness edged his vision and the cold floor bit into his back! Finally... finally it stopped or maybe Neal was too far out of it to feel the torture anymore. He lay limp and drained on the smooth floor, his breath sawing roughly through what felt like shredded lungs. Darkness crept farther into the edges of his vision as Neal stared up at the finished painting... through the haze of pain and weakness he begged to slip away into that darkness... he barely noticed when he did,