"Did he seem a little quiet there at the end?" Peter asked, leaning against the doorframe.
They'd been back in their room for almost an hour, and though they agreed the meeting had gone as well as could be expected, Peter still had an uneasy feeling about how they'd left things.
Elizabeth had showered and now, her hair still wrapped in a towel, was doing her nightly skin care regiment in front of the bathroom mirror.
"I think it was a lot for him to take in," she replied, dabbing at the delicate skin beneath her eyes. "It will take time for him to process everything he learned today."
"Not to mention the things he remembered," Peter remarked. "I still wonder what the deal at the Channing Museum was all about."
She turned to look at him. "You can't use what he tells you against him, Peter," she scolded. "It isn't fair. He..." she hesitated before returning her attention to her task with a frown. Peter felt a tinge of guilt at putting her to cross purposes. "Trusts you. That's why he called you in the first place."
"I know that," Peter replied. "But it's hard when he's just...well, putting it out there. What am I supposed to do? Tell him not to tell me? Mirandize him?"
"Maybe you should," she said pointedly, irritation still marring her reflection. "If you plan to start digging around to find some crime to charge him with."
He looked at her in surprise. Sure, he was curious, but he wouldn't charge Neal with a crime. Well, he thought belatedly, unless it was a big one—something he couldn't ignore.
"I wouldn't do that, El," he assured her in spite of his silent caveat. "But I know there was more to it than what he told us." He remembered the moment when Neal's confused expression had transformed into a look of almost placidity. He'd seen it happen before: a mask come down, hiding him and whatever he felt. When it happened, it meant Neal was feeling anything but undisturbed. "He remembered something else, something he didn't tell us."
Something that had scared him. Peter had seen that, too. A fleeting look of alarm in his eyes in the moment between confusion and the blankness. He might not remember much about his past, but his instinct against self-incrimination was still in force.
"So he's acting more and more like our Neal every moment," Elizabeth mused with a quirk of her lips.
"I guess he is," he agreed, thinking back over the odd exchange. "I wonder who that Edmund fellow was?"
Elizabeth let out an exasperated huff. "Peter!" she scolded again, a frown once more crinkling the space between her pretty eyes. "You can't investigate what he tells you in his current state. Do not go back and start looking into crimes at the Channing; do not try to find out who Edmund is." Well, he'd not really planned the first, but the second had entered his mind. "It's betraying his trust," she reiterated.
Peter knew she was right; taking advantage of Neal's condition would be unfair and even unethical. But still, all potential past crimes aside, there were other things he wouldn't mind knowing. Before he dropped out of the sky as Neal Caffrey at 18 years old, there was no record of him anywhere—no juvenile records, no school records, no legal documents related to custody proceedings. Peter wasn't convinced his name was Neal Caffrey, and he wasn't convinced of his age, either.
"I'm just curious, that's all," he said. "You know I've spent years trying to find out who he was before he showed up on my radar. Where he came from. Who is family is."
"If you want to learn more about him so you can be a better friend to him, that's one thing," Elizabeth replied, fixing him with, if not a glare, a stern look. "If you just want leverage on him as his handler, that is something else altogether."
Peter let out a sigh. Why did things have to be so complicated? He wanted to be Neal's friend; that was why he was currently tucked away in his room above the Fish House instead of in a jail cell. But how did he separate out his motives when it came to learning about Neal's past? Did he think that knowledge would make it easier to handle Neal on the job? Of course, he did. But only because he'd better understand him, understand why he'd make the life choices he had. Understand how he had become the man he was.
But there was something else he wanted to understand, something that had nothing to do with the job—something much more personal. Why Neal had fixated on him outside that Manhattan Bank, why he'd gone to great lengths to impress him, sending pizza to the van and postcards through the mail, and why he'd wanted, maybe even needed, to form some kind of relationship with an FBI agent determined to arrest him. Elizabeth and he had discussed it occasionally, but her theories always made him uneasy. A difficult childhood, perhaps. An absentee father. Something that made him seek out a father figure, someone he could trust to have his best interest at heart. Something, by examining all facts in evidence, he did not have. The key to discovering the truth lay in Neal's past, something he guarded ferociously but might reveal in his current state.
If he got that information, how would he use it? To be a better friend or to be a better handler?
If he'd learned anything over the past months, it was that he missed Neal, his friend, not Neal, his asset. And no matter how he would spin it to his superiors, he'd not come to Jonesport as an agent trying to reacquire an escaped felon. He'd come thrilled at the prospect of finding a lost friend.
"I told him if he wanted to stay John Thomas, I'd let him," he blurted out. Given the emotional nature of his and Neal's exchange on the dock, he'd kept the details to a bare minimum when recounting it to Elizabeth. "And I meant it. Still mean it if he changes his mind."
God forbid Neal would, but a part of him worried that, after whatever he'd remembered tonight, he might just take him up on his offer.
Elizabeth's face beamed with approval, and she rushed to him, wrapping him in a hug. "I'm so proud of you," she said. "I know that it wouldn't be easy for you to keep such a secret, but it is so sweet of you to offer." She pulled back. "I think being shot in the line of duty, living all these months with no idea of who he is and where he'd come from, has more than paid any debt he owes for his past crimes."
Peter stared at her. She was right, of course. With a doctor to document his injuries, his journal recounting the psychological and emotional trauma that resulted, and a diagnosis from Elizabeth's dad, it just might work.
Maybe Neal didn't have to remain John Thomas to be free; maybe there was another way.
wcwcwc
After having breakfast, overlooking a much nicer view of the harbor, Peter and Elizabeth spent some time exploring the small village Neal had called home for the past five months. Touristy options were limited, especially given the time of year. Ultimately, they'd taken in a local Art Exhibit at the library and enjoyed a virtual tour of the village the local historical society offered. There had been a shop whose window display had drawn Elizabeth inside to browse its clothing selection. In the men's section, prominently displayed, was a fedora exactly like the one Neal had owned. It was a tad on the expensive side, but Elizabeth insisted they purchase it all the same. The clerk had boxed it up for them just after noon and recommended a cafe just down the block for them to grab lunch. They passed on the suggestions and opted to return to the Fish House instead.
Although they both liked seafood, the food choice wasn't their primary reason for the visit. They were interested in seeing if more had been added to the mural. Neal had claimed exhaustion as they'd departed the night before, but Peter felt his reserve was due to more than being tired. He and Elizabeth knew that painting was how he dealt with unresolved emotions. If the painting remained unchanged, then perhaps he'd rested well. If not, then Peter's fears about how they'd left things were not unfounded.
The polite but not overly friendly greeting they received, coupled with what seemed to be a now completed mural, gave Peter his answer. Neal had not rested well if he'd rested at all. Mrs. Devaine had taken their drink order when she'd seated them and had now returned with two glasses of tea.
"I guess our visit last night gave Ne-John," Elizabeth corrected, considering her audience. "A lot to process." She nodded at the mural. "He must have painted half the night."
"All night." Mrs. Devaine informed her tightly, placing their drinks on the table. "He was still painting when I came in to start breakfast." She frowned. "Even as tired as he was," she continued, eyes now on the mural across the dining room, "he was agitated and unsettled. I haven't seen him like that in months." The eyes that now settled first on Elizabeth and then shifted to him were almost accusatory. "A lot to process, indeed. Are you ready to order?"
After a silent moment, Elizabeth mitigated the tension. "Yes," she stated with an enthusiasm Peter knew to be false. "We'll both have the Baked Haddock." Elizabeth took hers with grilled vegetables, and Peter did au gratin because, face it, everything was better with cheese. "We aren't here to hurt him, Mrs. Devaine, or cause him trouble," Elizabeth said as she handed over her menu. "And we aren't here to force him into anything." Here, she looked at him. "Isn't that right, Peter?"
He'd said it to Neal. He'd said it to Elizabeth. And now Elizabeth was making him say it to a third person. "That's right," he agreed, offering up the menu with the promise. "We're here to give him information. At the end of the day, it's his choice of what to do with it."
"He's already decided what he's going to do," her voice wavered. "That's why he worked all night to finish his painting. He's leaving Jonesport."
Peter wasn't sure if it was good news or bad news. Was he Leaving Jonesport to return to his life or to escape it?
The night spent painting instead of sleeping and Mrs. Devaine's comment about his agitation did not bode well for Neal's state of mind. He might have remembered more once they'd parted, things that made returning to his former life less pleasant than, perhaps, they'd led him to believe. Neal's instinct to run, just like the one against incriminating himself, was still alive and well in him despite his memory loss. There was a chance he could get Neal released from parole and free him from the agreement with the Bureau, but he couldn't guarantee it. And he couldn't exactly call in to test the waters beforehand. Still, he wanted to discuss the possibility with Neal.
"I'm sure he plans to let us know when he gets in this evening," Peter said, determined to be waiting when the fishing boat docked to insure the conversation happened.
"But he didn't go out on the Mariner today," Mrs. Devaine informed them. "He apologized to the Captain for leaving him short, but said he'd made his decision and it was important he not delay."
Important he not delay? He shared a look of alarm with his wife.
Neal hadn't gone out on the boat this morning; if he'd decided to run, he was already long gone.
Peter's heart began to pound. "Where did he go? Did he tell you?" He tried to keep his voice steady, but the desperation was palpable. He had been willing to let Neal stay in Jonesport under a different identity, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing him altogether. It had nothing to do with his job and everything to do with their friendship.
Mrs. Devaine gave him an odd look before answering. "He didn't leave," she answered. "At least not yet. I made him eat and then I sent him straight to bed."
Peter let out a sigh of relief, the tension easing out of his body, and felt Elizabeth do the same. He'd not lost Neal, not yet. And he wouldn't take the chance of him running off before they had another talk.
"Go ahead without me," he told Elizabeth, getting to his feet. "I'll be back in a minute. I want to go make sure he's okay."
Elizabeth's expression told him she understood the part he hadn't said out loud.
And that he is, in fact, where Mrs. Devaine thinks he is.