Episode references: S1E17—Hat Trick.

Chapter 46

"I didn't know she had a deputy," Jefferson went on, speaking calmly as they headed for the stairs. "I thought it'd be her tonight. But when you tumbled into my lap… or onto my back, well, never let it be said I can't improvise."

"Tonight?" Neal repeated. "You thought she'd come… tonight?"

"Keep moving. Oh, and don't try anything stupid, like pretending to trip on the stairs. If you do anything other than walk straight ahead, I will drop you."

"Touchy, aren't we?" Neal remarked, but he swallowed as he carefully placed one hand on the bannister.

"To answer your question, yes I did think she'd come tonight. Second door on the right," he added, as Neal reached the top of the stairs. "Don't open it until I tell you. You see, Neal Cassidy…" he drew a step closer and poked the muzzle of the Beretta into his back, while resting his free hand on Neal's shoulder, "Okay, turn the knob."

Neal did, and his eyes went wide, as he heard a muffled cry from within.

"…I do believe I've found that wolf you were worried about."

It had been an hour. Emma pulled over on a stretch of road that ran parallel to the beach and called Neal. She wasn't overly concerned when the call went to voice mail; Herbie predated cell phones, so of course he didn't have a hands-free option and it wasn't exactly great optics for the sheriff's SO to be caught talking on his phone while driving.

"Hey, I'm just checking in. I'm a mile past the cannery and so far, nothing. Let me know if you're having better luck. Love you."

She ended the call and waited ten minutes for a response before starting the car again. It didn't come. Now, she began to feel the faintest twinge of worry, but she pushed it away. If Neal was checking out the woods, phone coverage could be spotty. He might not have charged his cell recently. He could have turned it off; he did that sometimes when he didn't know the area and didn't want to be distracted. She drove along the road for another five minutes before she hit the fork that would take her back to the main part of town. She could do with a coffee and, with any luck, Neal would have the same idea right about now and they'd meet up in the line at Granny's.

Seeing Mary Margaret bound to a chair, her eyes wide with terror above the gag in her mouth sent Neal's thoughts into a whirlwind. They'd been so caught up in figuring out what had happened to Kathryn that they hadn't even thought to wonder about the kind of person who'd carve out their victim's heart and put it in a jewelry box as a grisly trophy. Normal killers didn't do stuff like that, but a serial killer might.

He spun to face Jefferson. "It was you, wasn't it? First you murdered Kathryn, now you've abducted Mary Margaret to…" He didn't finish his sentence. Mary Margaret was frightened enough. Still, he couldn't help thinking, And after that… am I next?

Mary Margaret whimpered. And for the first time, Jefferson's poise faltered. "I haven't killed anyone," he said quickly. "And if you do as you're told," his voice turned steely once more, "I'll keep it that way. Now. You're going to take out your phone. You're going to call the sheriff. And you're going to tell her that you've found someone she needs to talk to. You'll deliver that message, word for word, and then you'll end the call. Do that," he smiled tightly, "and maybe you both live to see sunrise. You try anything stupid, you say anything else, no matter how innocuous and," he leveled the gun and pointed it at Mary Margaret, whose eyes grew even rounder as she struggled in her bonds.

"Okay, okay," Neal said, fighting to keep his voice calm. "Don't hurt her. I'll call Emma." He cautiously reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

Jefferson shook his head. "Not yet. Give it to me."

"What?"

"Hand it over," Jefferson repeated. "I wanted you to understand how important it is that you follow my instructions. That's why I had to bring you upstairs. But having you alert and active is a liability. So now," he said, turning the gun back to Neal, "I want you to open that door on the left and walk inside."

Hesitantly, Neal pulled open the door and found that it led to a closet.

"Inside," Jefferson repeated. "When you first came in, I offered you a cup of tea. I'm going downstairs to get it ready for you; you're sure to be thirsty after talking on the phone. After you've delivered my message to the sheriff, you'll drink it. I promise you it won't do anything worse than put you to sleep for an hour or so."

"What about Emma?" Neal demanded.

"I won't hurt her," Jefferson said. "You have my word."

"For all that's worth."

"You also don't have a choice," Jefferson reminded him. "There's something I need, something only she can accomplish. I was hoping that her friend's safety would suffice to ensure her cooperation, and perhaps it will, but if hers won't," he shrugged, "now I have you."

"Then let Mary Margaret go," Neal said. "You don't need two hostages."

Jefferson shook his head. "As sensible as that sounds," he said, "I found her yards from the town line and aiming to cross over. And while I don't expect you to understand this, believe me when I say that it's in her best interest that she doesn't."

"You've been talking to Henry," Neal murmured.

"The queen's father?" Jefferson asked, startled. "I haven't seen him since I got here."

Neal tried not to let his own surprise show. "Henry Mills. The mayor's adopted kid. My son."

"Oh, that Henry," Jefferson smiled. "With his book of stories that aren't quite as fictitious as you think. If you knew what I know, you'd see that for yourself." His voice hardened. "Inside. Now."

As Neal obeyed, he took a deep breath and blurted, "What makes you think I don't?"

He was rewarded with a chuckle. "Nice try," Jefferson said, shutting the closet door behind him. A moment later, a key turned in the lock and his captor's retreating footsteps told him that he and Mary Margaret were alone in the room.

The hinges were on the other side of the door. Neal fumbled blindly in the tight, dark space, made tighter by the garment bags and wool coats at his back, as his mind went through the possibilities. He could wait for Jefferson to show up. Odds were, he wouldn't be able to handle the gun, unlock the door, hand Neal the phone, and force him to down a cup of tea; the guy only had two hands!

Two hands, and another hostage tied to a chair. Neal wouldn't be able to risk rushing him when the door opened. Not if it might mean the gun going off and Mary Margaret's getting hurt or worse. He pulled out his wallet and opened it, running his fingers over the thin edges of his credit cards. He wished he had more light; any card he used would be destroyed with what he was about to do, and he wasn't sure how he'd be able to get Visa or Amex to mail a replacement to a town that didn't officially exist. Of course, if Jefferson was lying about the tea being harmless, replacing a credit card was going to be the least of his worries.

He tugged out a card at the back of the wallet and brushed his fingertips over its face. Smooth, he noted. Credit cards were embossed. He should be able to sacrifice this one. He wedged the card into the crack between door and jamb, right where the bolt ought to have been. It wasn't a deadbolt, he thought with relief. It shouldn't have been; closet doors seldom were, but Neal wouldn't have put it past this guy to have put one in. He forced the card onto the slanted side of the bolt with one hand, and turned the knob with the other. It took a moment, but the latch bolt did slide across the card and the door opened.

Neal exhaled and glanced at the piece of plastic in his hand. MTA CharlieCard, he smiled. Yeah, he didn't imagine he was going to be using Boston transit anytime soon!

Mary Margaret's back was to him and the school teacher seemed to be slumped forward. Neal wondered whether she was asleep, but as he moved to untie her she sat up straight with a stifled gasp. "Easy," he whispered. "It's me. Neal. Hold still, I gotta work fast."

As soon as her hands were free, she loosened her own gag and sighed in relief. Then she tensed once more. "He'll be coming back," she whispered. "We have to get out of here!"

Neal shook his head. "I don't think we can get out of the house," he said regretfully. "He knows this turf; we don't. The odds of our getting out the door and into the car are…" He frowned, thinking. "Okay," he said, as the last of the ropes fell away. "Into the closet."

"What?"

"Into the closet. Try to get behind the coats and stuff. With any luck, he won't think to look there. And if you hear a gun go off, you stay where you are, understand?" His voice was grim. "If he gets the drop on me, he probably won't want a witness. You can't let him know you're still here. Whatever happens to me, you try to lie low until you hear him go out again, then run. Got it?"

Mary Margaret swallowed hard and nodded.

They heard a tread on the stair and both froze. "Closet," Neal ordered. "Get in as far as you can; I'm right behind you. Now!"

As soon as they were both inside, Neal shut the door and gripped the inside knob tightly, hoping that Jefferson wouldn't notice that the lock had been tampered with. It was only a few seconds later that they both heard him step into the room.

Almost at once, the air was punctuated by a muffled oath. Then a key clicked in the lock of the already unlocked door and Neal waited until he felt the knob start to turn before he released it. Jefferson, gun in one hand and Neal's phone in the other stared at him wild-eyed.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

Neal tilted his head. "How the hell would I know?" he countered.

"It's all unraveling," Jefferson muttered, seeming to be thinking out loud rather than talking to Neal. "It won't work. She has to get it to work!"

"What?"

Jefferson pressed the phone into Neal's hand. Then, he yanked him out of the closet and shoved the nose of the pistol into his back. "Move," he commanded, propelling Neal toward the chair Mary Margaret had vacated. "Sit. Now call the sheriff. You remember what you have to tell her?"

Neal nodded. "That I've got someone here she has to talk to." He frowned. "Where's… here?"

"Three-sixteen Shaughnessy Drive," Jefferson told him quickly. "She asks anything else, you tell her it's a long story and you'll explain when she gets here. You deviate from that script one iota, you even give me reason to suspect you're trying to warn her, and I will take the head shot. If you're lucky," he added, "it'll kill you. Then again, I've never tried firing this on a live person before. I've been told that the brain's a tricky thing. Depending on where the bullet goes in, you might end up paralyzed… brain damaged… comatose… And what if there's still a part of you that knows what you lost and who you used to be, and it's screaming inside you that it wants to come out, but it can't?"

Neal tried to keep his face impassive, but his hands went cold and he was sure that Mary Margaret could hear his swallow from the back of the closet. "I understand," he said slowly. His mouth was dry, but he wasn't going to ask for water; who knew what this guy was going to put in it?

Jefferson smiled. "All right then," he nodded toward the phone. "Call her."

Neal wasn't at Granny's, and he still hadn't answered her message. Emma was starting to worry, just a little. She was just about to call him again when her phone rang. As she looked at the Caller ID, a smile sprang to her lips. "Hey," she said, answering. "Find anything?"

"Sort of," Neal's voice was calm, but there was a tension underlying it that told Emma that he was holding back. "I've found someone here that you need to talk to. I'm on Shaughnessy Drive, number… uh…" There was a pause and then another voice spoke in the background.

"Three… one… six."

"Three one six," Neal repeated. "Come now."

"Why not just give him the phone?" Emma asked. "I'll talk to him."

"It's more that there's something he needs to show you," Neal said.

His voice was still calm, Emma noted. A puzzled frown creased her face. Why wouldn't he sound calm? "Neal? Everything okay?"

"Sure," he replied, but without the cheerful laugh that usually came through in their phone conversations. Instead, there was just this supernal, almost flat calm. Emma's mind flashed on that one time when they'd gone for a picnic in Round Mountain Park, back in Arizona and come across a western diamondback.

Emma, I want you to listen carefully. Most snakes won't bother you if you don't get too close. Now, I want you to slowly step backwards. Okay, good. Now another step. Another one…

There had been that same eerie, careful calm in his tone then that she was hearing now. "Neal?"

"You need to come here," he said again flatly. "I'll see you soon. Love you."

The connection ended. Emma stared at her phone. She'd never thought that hearing Neal tell her he loved her could sound so… off. He was in trouble and she was probably walking into a trap.

Or maybe Mary Margaret got the drop on him, and she's holding him at gunpoint. A terrified person with a deadly weapon? Yeah, that'd probably get him sounding like he'd just found another snake… But then, who the hell was that other voice in the background?

She hadn't recognized it. She didn't think it had been David's—unless he'd been trying to disguise it. It would have made sense if it had been. If Mary Margaret and David had conspired to murder Kathryn, or David had helped her escape and Neal had surprised them trying to leave town... Maybe Mary Margaret had cooked up that story about David's hurtful accusation, just to make it look like they weren't working together.

She wasn't lying, though. My superpower confirmed that much, but even without it, Mary Margaret's a terrible liar.

It wasn't a lie if David had actually said those words, though. But would either of those two have thought to fool her superpower that way? Emma frowned, trying to remember if she'd ever mentioned that talent to either Mary Margaret or David. Then she realized that it didn't necessarily matter if she had. Henry knew about it, and while Henry could keep secrets, he was a kid, he often wore his emotions on his sleeve, and if he didn't think that her superpower was a secret, he could have told it to either of them in passing.

The night of the party, he tried to 'prove' David was Prince Charming by asking him if he'd ever used a sword! He's not exactly subtle.

Emma grimaced. Then, she pushed back her chair from the table and got up to leave. Right now, Neal was in trouble, and whether the reason behind it was Mary Margaret, David, or some other player, she wouldn't find answers just sitting on her ass.

She'd been in Storybrooke long enough to know that something was weird about this place. Maybe she was closer to figuring out what it was than she thought. Maybe this was the part where she finally got to meet the person—or the people—responsible!

Either way, she was going. And she was going to be as wary and on her guard as Neal had been when they'd seen that rattlesnake!

"All right," Neal said. "I did what you asked. She's on her way."

Jefferson nodded. "So it would seem. And," he added, "for your sake, I'd hope so. Right. Arms on the armrests." As soon as Neal had complied, he reached into his pocket with his left hand, keeping the gun trained on Neal with his right. A second later, he frowned, and stooped slightly to the right, as he dug deeper into the pocket.

Neal saw his chance. Surging to his feet, he gripped the gun barrel, moving sideways as he delivered a blow to Jefferson's wrist with the side of his hand. Caught off-balance, Jefferson fell to the ground. He started to rise, but fell back when he realized that his own gun was now trained on him. He raised his hands in surrender. "Okay," Neal said. "Get up. Nice and slow."

"You don't understand," Jefferson said, making no effort to rise. "If she can't get it to work, I'll never get my daughter back!"

"And you thought kidnapping was the way to go?" Neal demanded. "Emma and I are bounty hunters. Bailbondspeople. Or at least, we were before she got the sheriff gig. Finding people is what we do and these days, we don't even charge for it!"

"She's not lost!" Jefferson protested, reaching for the chair. Maybe he only meant to use it to help him stand, but Neal shook his head.

"Uh-uh. Use the wall."

Obediently, Jefferson scuttled backwards on the palms of his hands and the soles of his boots. "What I mean is," he said as he moved, "she's only lost to me. I mean… I know where she is. But I can't get to her. I can watch her… day in, day out… happy with her new family. She doesn't remember who I am."

Neal frowned. "Look, if CPS took her, I'm not sure Emma or I can help. You don't need cops; you need a lawyer."

"No!" Jefferson cried. Bracing one hand on the wall, he struggled to his feet. "It's not CPS. It's the Curse! The Curse tore my daughter from me and made her forget that we were ever a family. And it let me remember. I need the Savior because she's the only one who can get it to work!"

The pleading in his voice almost made Neal falter. He'd heard that level of desperation before and he knew the lengths to which it could push a person. No, Jefferson wasn't about to become the next Dark One, but Neal suspected that he might have considered it, had it been an option here. And knowing what his father had become out of that self-same level of desperation wiped out the sympathy he'd been feeling. "Get what to work?" he snapped. "You aren't making sense?"

Jefferson hesitated. "Come with me and I'll show you."

"Okay," Neal said, exhaling. "But walk slow, keep your hands where I can see them, and no funny business."

It was nearly a full five minutes before Mary Margaret dared to emerge from the closet. She made her way to the window, opened it and peered outside. A gust of cold air blew her short hair back and chilled her through her wool coat. Then she looked down and began to shiver all the more. She couldn't—

She had no choice. It was the window, or the front door and she couldn't assume that Jefferson wouldn't be able to overpower Neal and take back his gun.

Never mind that she was now a fugitive and Neal had just called Emma—the sheriff—and told her to come here. She had to get out of here while she still could! She tried to look down, but it was dark and she couldn't tell how far it was. She was on the second floor, but what if the back of the house was up against the edge of a ravine?

If she didn't want to find herself tied to a chair or locked in a cell, she had no choice. She had to risk it. It was probably better that she couldn't see how high up she was. She swallowed hard. The window was wide enough for her to fit through, at least she thought it was. Bracing her hands on the window sill, she pulled herself up. For a moment, she sat on the sill, her legs dangling in the night air. Then, she slid to her left, bracing her side on the window frame. She rested a tentative palm on the exterior wall and felt flaky bark on narrow dry branches. In the summer, Mary Margaret thought, this house was probably covered with leafy vines, but it was too early in the year for that now. Meanwhile, she thought—she hoped—that the branches would take her weight.

Taking hold of one of the thicker branches with one hand, she slid off the window sill. As she started to drop, she instinctively slammed her free hand against the wall, fighting the urge to scream. It slapped against more dry branches. Hardly daring to breathe, she cautiously slid one foot upward, pressing the toe of her shoe against the side of the house until she found a toehold. It took another long minute before she was able to find purchase for her other shoe. She'd done it! She was safe; as safe as she could be outside a second story window. Now… now, she just had to get down.

It probably wasn't more than sixteen feet from the window sill to the ground, but it seemed like forever before Mary Margaret's shoes sank onto damp earth. By then, there were slivers of bark embedded in the palms of her hands, there were bits of twigs in her hair, and her coat had acquired bits and pieces of both—and likely left behind more than one tuft of purplish wool.

Still, Mary Margaret thought, as she stole away from the grounds and made her way cautiously down the road, she'd done it! She was still free. She wasn't far from the town line. Not more than a mile or two, and then…

A Cadillac Brougham sped past her, swerved, and came to a stop several yards ahead, blocking her path. The passenger-side window rolled down, and a familiar face leaned toward her.

"Going somewhere, Dearie?" Mr. Gold asked with a faint smirk.