New York City. Friday night. February 20, 2004.
After dinner, Neal and his aunt Noelle took a cab back to her hotel. They arranged to meet the following morning, and then Neal decided to walk the rest of the way home. It was a cold night but dry, and Neal wanted the solitude of a long walk.
His cell phone buzzed, and he saw it was Peter. He should have called, he realized, to let Peter know Byron had died. And now he stared at the phone, undecided about whether to answer, until the call went to voice mail. He resumed walking.
About fifteen minutes later the phone buzzed again. This time it was Henry. Neal still didn't feel like talking, but he supposed he should answer or people would keep calling. "Yeah?" he said by way of greeting. "Did Peter call you?"
"He did," confirmed Neal's cousin. "I reminded him that Mom was arriving tonight and you were probably busy. Then I called her and she filled me in. I'm sorry about Byron. He was a great guy."
"He was." Neal continued walking.
"You okay?"
Neal sighed. "I had weeks, you know? Plenty of time to tell him how much I appreciated everything he'd done: all of his advice, letting me have the apartment for a song, the way he cared about whether I succeeded. But I put it off. Instead I distracted him with songs or stories about things I'd done, or listening to his stories. I waited to the very last minute, and I have no idea if he heard me. Hell, I don't even know if I was coherent."
"He wanted that distraction. He needed it."
"But just once I could have –"
"Don't go there," warned Henry. "You'll never escape from the trap of could haves. He didn't ask for more, did he?"
"No, but..." Neal ran his free hand through his hair as he stopped at a light. "I really don't want to think about this. Can we talk about something else?"
Henry paused, and Neal half expected to be told avoidance wouldn't help. But instead his cousin said, "Pops' weekend commitment turned out to be only Saturday. We'll head up starting Sunday, and probably get to New York Tuesday afternoon. If Peter's available we'd like to meet with both of you for dinner to catch up on the case."
"You can sail up here that fast?"
The answer to that was lengthy, involving an explanation that the boat was actually docked in Delaware, and a review of possible routes and stops on the way to New York. Neal didn't have the sailing experience to follow it all, but imagining the trip with the ocean air and the rocking of the waves was a welcome distraction. He let Henry's words wash over him until he reached the mansion and had to say goodbye. Henry said he'd call Peter, and Neal supposed he should offer to do it himself, but was glad to let Henry break the news of Byron's death.
As soon as he opened the front door he heard the crying. The youngest of Byron's daughters was in tears in the front room. Fortunately her husband was comforting her, and a moment later her older sister entered the room to offer an apology for something she'd said. Neal slipped upstairs without being noticed.
He changed out of his suit into something more casual and started to paint.
###
Peter had sent Jones and Tricia home before he tried calling Neal Friday night. It had been a hectic day and evening, as they hit the deadline Hughes had imposed for gathering enough information to tie Vincent Adler to their Highbury case. Following Neal's suggestion, Jones had contacted Seamus Bickerton about the Enscombe estate and asked for the owner's contact information. Jones had explained their suspicion that Highbury was conducting illegal activities on the property, and Bickerton had taken the bait. He wouldn't provide contact info, but promised to get in touch with the owner. The attorney said he'd have a response for the FBI on Monday, and indicated he would recommend that Perdue Incorporated authorize the search. He also sent a copy of the lease to Jones.
The lease proved that Kate did have inside information about the owner of Enscombe. She had been telling the truth when she told Neal a suite had been reserved for the owner's sole use through the end of February. That lent credence to her claim that Adler was the owner.
They were debating whether Bickerton really intended to contact the owner, and whether they could get a warrant for a tap or for his phone records, when the case took an unexpected twist. Jones had been monitoring the Nick Halden email address in case any new messages arrived from Highbury, and instead a message arrived from Bickerton. It said Halden's "former employer" had recommended he contact Nick "to recover an item" and he needed to know if Nick could do it or recommend someone else who would be available in the next week. He also mentioned "Ancient Lyre" as a phrase that would convince Nick that this was a legitimate request from a client who could afford to pay very well.
Hughes had listened to the update on the case that evening with few questions. Peter concluded with, "Our main concern had been that Bickerton would grant permission to search all of Enscombe except for the largest suite. But now it appears that won't be an issue, since he's unwittingly contacted an FBI employee to break into the safe we wanted to search."
"You've done a good job. All of you," Hughes said, with a nod to Jones and Tricia. "I'd still like to keep it quiet that we have an active lead on Adler. The man clearly has resources we weren't aware of, and I don't want to risk a leak that could jeopardize our case. Peter, can I have a word with you?"
The others left, recognizing the request as a dismissal. "You can trust them," Peter said to his boss.
"They're good people. But I want to talk about Caffrey. He's deeply ingrained in this case. We wouldn't have this lead without him, and it appears we can't go forward without his participation. Just a few days ago you convinced me he shouldn't go undercover without clearance from a therapist. Do you trust he's ready to handle this assignment?"
"He has an appointment with a therapist on Saturday."
"That doesn't answer my question."
Peter promised he'd check with the therapist after that appointment. But although he didn't admit it to Hughes, he did have concerns. A single appointment did not seem sufficient to deal with Neal's childhood issues, and the situation with Byron only made things worse.
Now Peter waited at his desk for a return call from Henry. He grabbed the phone the moment it started to ring. "How is he?" he demanded.
"As good as could be expected," said Henry. "Byron died late this afternoon. My mother arrived about an hour later, and took Neal out for dinner. She'll keep an eye on him tomorrow. He doesn't really want to talk right now, but that's not unusual. He'll need some time to take it all in."
"What can I do?" Peter asked.
Henry sighed. "You're one of those people who want to fix things, aren't you? You aren't going to like this. All you can do is be patient and give him space. Be willing to listen when he's ready to talk, but don't push him."
"Does he need to take time off?"
"Not necessarily. He'll probably want to dive into work to keep his mind occupied with something other than grief. Is this case I'm helping with one that can challenge him?"
"It involves going undercover to take down a criminal mastermind and cracking a safe."
"Sounds perfect," said Henry.
But Peter had doubts. How did he weigh the benefits of using this case to keep Neal distracted from grief – over losing Byron and over the realization that Kate may have been using him – against the risks that it would result in a drug-induced flashback that could endanger him?
###
Saturday morning Neal's phone emitted the tone that indicated a text message. It distracted him from staring at his kitchen shelves for breakfast inspiration. He saw it was 9:00 already, and the text was from Peter: "Going to therapy today?"
When he thought about it, Neal was surprised that more than twelve hours had gone by since Peter's last attempt to contact him. Henry had something to do with that, he guessed. Neal texted back: "Yeah."
Neal knew as soon as he hit send that he should have written more. Peter would have expected sarcasm or annoyance. The lack would worry him. And only seconds later Peter sent: "You okay?"
Neal considered saying yeah again, but responded back with the more accurate: "Tired."
Then he sat down to a bowl of cereal, which he stirred more than he ate, and was surprised to find an hour had gone by when Noelle knocked on his door at 10:00.
She didn't hide her curiosity as Neal opened the door to his apartment. He noticed her perfume as she walked by, the same spicy scent his mother used to wear. "Can I have the tour?" his aunt requested, and he walked her around the space, including the terrace. Back inside, she stopped in front of the easel. The painting was almost complete, a study in blues with a slash of yellow pouring over the rest. "Give me the artist's perspective on this one."
"Byron and June are... were... music lovers. They especially loved Sinatra and jazz. The blue is a representation of the music, the harmony of their lives with its light and dark aspects. The yellow is the jarring note, the rending apart of their lives."
"The way you've depicted it, it almost looks like the canvas was slashed, with light pouring through from the other side. It's jarring, but not dark or depressing." Noelle looked around the room, noting a set of canvases leaning against the wall. "You have some impressive work here, but this one is especially powerful." She studied the piece on the easel a little longer. "It's beautiful and haunting."
Neal shrugged. "Painting calms the nerves."
"It's acting as art therapy, then." She studied him as intensely as she had the painting. "Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Not much," he admitted. After hours of painting, he'd tried to sleep with little success. And he didn't want to mention the nightmare, the first one he'd had in weeks.
"Neal?"
He stopped staring at the painting to look at his aunt. Great. He'd lost his concentration and missed something. "I'm sorry."
"I was asking how you spend a normal Saturday, sweetie."
"I'd go to a museum or art gallery, grab lunch and then come back here to..." He swallowed. "I'd play the piano."
Noelle laid a hand on his arm. "What's wrong?"
Neal shook his head. "How did you want to start? Do we hold the session here?"
"No. Not here, and not yet. We need to return some normalcy to your life first. Take me to one of those museums or galleries."
June approached them as they walked downstairs to tell Neal the funeral would be Tuesday. He promised to be there, and asked if she had selected a song.
"I considered 'Young at Heart' because he loved hearing you sing that, but a couple of days ago Byron suggested 'Let It Be.' I think... I think he knew that's what I need to hear."
"Then that's what I'll I do," Neal promised. It was tempting to rush out, but he took a deep breath and asked the question that had popped into his mind when he told Noelle about his normal Saturdays. "June, do you want me to move out now that... now that Byron's gone?"
His landlady's eyes widened. "Why on earth would you think that?"
"When you told me about the apartment, you said you wanted someone who could distract Byron with music and appreciate his stories. Now that he's gone..." Neal shrugged. "You don't need me now, and you could make a lot more money renting the space to someone else."
June crossed her arms. "Neal Caffrey, you listen to me. You are like family. If you aren't comfortable here, you are free to leave whenever you want, but I am not about to toss you into the streets. Your home is here as long as you want it to be." Her outrage was broken by a sniffle. She reached up kiss Neal's cheek. "Now spend some time with your aunt. Maybe she can talk some sense into you."
###
After a stroll through the Channing museum and a leisurely lunch, Noelle recommended they use her hotel room for their first therapy session. She said using a neutral location would be better than having him associate his apartment with the painful memories they might cover.
They were only a few blocks from the hotel, and Noelle was willing to walk when Neal suggested it. He watched the people and traffic, slightly bewildered. "Nothing's changed," he said. "An incredible man is gone, and it didn't even make a ripple." He shook his head. "I know that people die every day and things go on the same as before. But this time it doesn't seem right."
Noelle squeezed his arm through his coat. "It doesn't seem right or even conceivable to have a world without him. Someone should have figured it out, stopped the world, and fixed it."
Neal looked at her in surprise. "Exactly. How did you know?"
"I lost my brother last summer. That's how it hit me: that it was a mistake. It was unimaginable that the world could go on without him, and that people didn't notice how wrong it was. Such things couldn't be allowed to happen in a well-ordered universe."
Neal took her hand. "I wish I'd known my uncle David."
"So did he, sweetheart. He regretted not getting to watch you grow up, and it's a tragedy you weren't able to meet him as an adult." As they entered the hotel lobby she added, "I had experience with grief before last year. When the Marshals took you and my sister away, it was a tremendous loss. I thought I was prepared for the reality of never seeing either of you again, but it was still a huge adjustment. At first I kept thinking there should have been another way to deal with the danger you were in. I had to get past that before I could accept you were both gone."
Noelle's suite had a small living room with a sofa and generously-sized arm chair. After taking off their coats, Noelle directed him to the sofa, and offered him a bottle of water. She curled up in the chair. Before she could ask Neal about the abuse, he went on the offensive. "You've talked to Henry, and to my mom. How much do you already know about what happened to me?"
"I need to hear it all in your words."
"I get it, but I want to know if you... if you know more than I do."
"How could I?" Noelle countered. But when Neal simply stared at her, she sighed. "Henry guards his privacy and yours zealously. All he said was that you had experienced a childhood trauma and repressed part of it, and that he's worried about you. You know I've managed to speak with your mother every year around Christmas since she went into WITSEC, against the wishes of the Marshals. The Christmas you were nine, she told me she'd dated someone who had hurt you. She admitted that her drinking had prevented her from realizing what was going on, and said that after he was out of her life, she went to rehab. She said it helped, but that she was still drinking occasionally."
Neal rolled his eyes. "That's all she said – that her boyfriend hurt me? She never gave more detail?"
"I don't believe she meant to diminish the severity of what you suffered, Neal. She understandably wanted to put the experience behind her, and she wanted to protect me. When she mentioned it, you were a few months from your tenth birthday, and Henry had recently turned twelve. Meredith knew that any details she provided I'd imagine happening to my own son. At the time I was grateful she spared me. Knowing what happened and being unable to do anything for either of you would have been torturous. I can't tell you how much I regretted that I couldn't be there for both of you. But now I can help you, and that starts with hearing your perspective of what happened."
A sudden attack of nerves had Neal popping up to pace around the room. "Like Henry said, a lot of the memories are repressed. How are you supposed to help me deal with things I can't even remember?"
"Some of those memories are coming back already, aren't they?"
A snippet of last night's nightmare replayed and he suppressed a shudder. "Yeah."
"We start with talking through the parts you do remember, and the memories that are making their way back. Then we'll see how to open the door to the rest."
"How will you know I'm telling the truth?"
Noelle smiled. "I'm good at reading people. The more time we spend together, the more I'll be able to identify the signs that you're withholding something. And hopefully, the more you'll trust me. Remember, all of this is to help you. The more open and forthcoming you are, the better and faster we can work through this."
Neal perched on the arm of the sofa. "Why don't therapists just get their patients roaring drunk and learn what you want that way?"
"While it's true that alcohol reduces inhibitions, it's not a truth serum."
"But sometimes drugs are used in therapy," Neal said.
"That's more common in psychiatry than in psychology. And a standard truth serum doesn't help you access repressed memories. There is a new drug that seems to bring down the walls patients have built around repressed memories, but that's intended as a last resort. Therapists are still evaluating how a drug-based retrieval of memory affects the patient. It's certainly not an experiment I want to try on you. Enough procrastinating, Neal. Sit back down and tell me about your mother's boyfriend."
Neal recited the story without emotion. Vance had worked at a local bank. He'd started dating Neal's mother when Neal was in third grade, shortly after Thanksgiving. Sometimes he'd take Neal to a nearby park, where they played football or other games. And if Neal came back with a bruise, people smiled and said it was good the boy finally had a man in his life, someone who would encourage him to be active and roughhouse.
The more Vance became a fixture in their life, the more Ellen Parker made herself scarce, not wanting to intrude on her friend's blossoming romance.
Around the end of January, Neal's mother needed to go out of town a few days on a business trip. Normally Neal would have stayed with Ellen, but Vance volunteered to stay at the house and look after the boy. That's when the bumps and bruises escalated from an annoyance to serious. Vance knocked Neal around when waking him up in the morning, careful to hit him around the ribs and belly, where the bruises wouldn't be seen at school.
Soon after Meredith returned home from the business trip, Vance moved in with them. He took over the job of waking Neal in the morning, and of enforcing bath time. He was able to keep Meredith from noticing Neal's bruises, and the violence escalated.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Noelle asked, bringing Neal back to the here and now.
"I'd wanted a dad for so long. And everyone kept saying how lucky we were to have Vance." He shrugged. "For all I knew, it was normal. When people talked about how I'd been missing a man's influence in my life, I assumed they knew exactly what his influence was and they were okay with it."
"What happened next?"
Neal let his mind return to St. Louis in the late 1980s. "Eventually I was in serious pain. Bruised ribs became a normal part of my life. I started whining at night when he mentioned bed time. I didn't want to go to bed, because going to bed and being woken up meant being hit. Mom didn't notice, but one evening Ellen was over, and expressed concern. That night Vance started warning me not to complain, and not to tell anyone. He said if I told, he'd hurt my mom, too. From then on, it became part of the ritual. Before and after hitting me he'd make me promise not to tell, or he would hurt Mom."
"How did your mother become aware of what was happening?"
"I think the first clue was when I started having nightmares. That was probably the middle of February. I have no idea what I screamed before they woke me up, but it must have worried Vance. After a week of that he said it had to stop, or he'd hurt my mom. I had to figure out how to stop having bad dreams. The only way I knew to do that was not to sleep."
"That solution couldn't have worked for long."
"No, it didn't. Within a few days I fell asleep in school. They assumed I was sick and took me to the school nurse, who called my mom to pick me up. It wasn't easy for her to get away from work during the day, but Ellen's schedule was more flexible, and Mom asked her to get me. Ellen took me to her house, where I fell asleep again and had one of the nightmares. It didn't take her long to unravel the truth from there. She told Mom to come alone to pick me up, and then showed her the bruises. They took me to a hospital to get an official exam on the record for evidence. Next thing I knew, Vance was out of the picture. Looking back, I'd guess Mom called the Marshals and they got rid of him."
Neal stretched, trying to loosen up muscles that had tightened with tension. "March rolled around, we celebrated my ninth birthday and thought we'd seen the last of Vance. But he reappeared in April." Neal fell silent, lost in his memories of that time.
Noelle tolerated his silence for a couple of minutes. "You have to tell me, Neal. If you want that clearance to do undercover work for the FBI, we can't stop now."
Neal rubbed his face. "Maybe I'm having second thoughts about going undercover at Highbury. I'm not sure I can..." He trailed off. Suddenly his mind was making connections between the case and what Noelle had said at the beginning of their session. "We think Highbury is drugging their clients, getting them to reveal secrets that can be used for blackmail. The clients all black out, and don't have any memories of what happened to them. That's why we suspect a drug as opposed to simply getting them drunk. Could the drugs used in therapy have that effect?"
"You know I'm not going to let this distract me from hearing the rest of your story."
"Yeah, yeah, you're as stubborn as Henry. I get it." Neal stood up and walked around the room once, stopping to stand in front of Noelle. "Humor me. Are there drugs you know of that could be used in that kind of blackmail scheme? If we could narrow it down, we could check for police reports of that drug being stolen and trace the thefts back to Highbury."
Noelle closed her eyes a moment, appearing lost in thought. Then she focused on Neal again. "Yes."
"And?"
"And, I will tell you about them after we finish this session."
Neal huffed out a sigh of frustration, but returned to the sofa. He picked up one of the throw pillows and held it close. "In late April, Vance cornered me when I cut through a wooded park on my way home from school. He knocked me down and broke my arm." He clutched the pillow more tightly. "And that's all I remember, until I woke up in a hospital. I know that Vance abducted me, and that I had several broken bones and fractures when I was found the next morning. I missed the rest of the school year, but they let me go into fourth grade with the rest of my class in the fall." He paused. "Vance went to prison, and Henry did some research into the trial transcripts. He learned that a man tried to help me, and Vance shot him. Apparently in one of my flashbacks I said it was my fault he was shot. When I got out of the hospital, I stayed with Ellen for a few weeks while Mom went to her first round of rehab. I was enrolled in art classes to regain fine motor control in my arm, and to express the things I couldn't or wouldn't say about my experiences." He'd been staring at the coffee table while he spoke, although he'd been seeing scenes from long ago. Now he looked up to face Noelle. "Your turn. Tell me about those drugs."
She shook her head. "That was a very well-rehearsed account of the facts, but this session isn't over. Now we're going to talk about the parts you left out."