Jacobi Hospital. Friday night. February 27, 2004.
Neal woke with a gasp, and then relaxed again.
"That's the third time tonight," a man said. Neal couldn't quite place the voice.
"Hush, Edmund. He'll be asleep again in a minute."
"All I'm saying is Noelle told us to call if he seemed distressed. She could have been a little more specific. Doesn't this seem distressed to you?"
"You're more distressed than he is."
"It would help if she'd tell us what happened to him. I've spent all evening imagining what it might be that he's dreaming about. Or flashing back to, in Noelle's parlance. I think we have a right to know."
"A psychologist can't share details from her sessions with her patients, darling. You know that." There was a pause. "Henry, on the other hand, seems to know more than he's telling and doesn't have doctor-patient privilege to fall back on as an excuse."
"Oh, you think you're going to crack that nut? Ten dollars says he's not going to spill a single detail."
What had he been dreaming about? Neal pondered that question as he drifted in a state that was not quite sleep. He searched his memory. Something was there, something new he didn't recognize. Now that he noticed it, he kept coming back to it, fascinated but wary. It was as if he had lived in a house for years and finally noticed a door that had been there all along. Before he could decide whether or not to open it, he was asleep.
The next time Neal woke, it was more gradually. He had more of an awareness of his surroundings now. He remembered he was in a hospital after being given an overdose of Flashback. The sedative in the drug would have left him unconscious and then asleep for hours, according to the briefing Henry had given. "What time izzit?" he murmured.
"It's Friday night," said a woman. She sounded familiar. "Almost Saturday. Are you going to sleep the weekend away?"
He sighed and relaxed, but for once he didn't drift back to sleep again. He was too curious about who the woman was. He listened as she carried on a conversation with someone else in the room, and he feigned sleep so they would keep talking. While they spoke he sorted through a series of vague and dreamlike memories of the last day, trying to decide which pieces were real.
Soon he was more awake than he'd been all day, and he kept coming to the same conclusion: these people in his room were his grandparents. At various times he'd spoken to them and even played poker with them, without truly understanding who they were. But he'd seen pictures of them over the last few years, had toured their home in D.C. with Henry a few months ago over the Christmas holidays while they were out of town, and now that he could think clearly he recognized them as Edmund and Irene Caffrey.
Now what did he do? Was he supposed to sit up, admit he didn't remember anything about them, and ask how they'd been doing for the last twenty-some years? He didn't feel ready for that conversation. But unless he could really fall asleep, he didn't see how he could avoid it.
Whose bright idea had it been to leave him alone with these people?
It had to be Henry's fault.
He wished someone else would show up to take the focus away from him. Was there a way to get a doctor or nurse to come to his room? Neal considered trying a variation of a con he and Henry had perfected when he was eighteen. They'd go to a restaurant, order a meal they couldn't afford, and then as the dessert was being delivered one of them would pretend to suffer an instant, migraine-like headache. Not waiting to eat dessert was the master touch. It helped convince people they weren't faking illness to avoid the bill. And they'd made the act subtle, not yelling for help, but almost trying to hide the problem in the midst of a crowded restaurant. One of them would be hissing in pain and holding his head while the other pretended to search for medication they would discover had been left at their hotel. They tried to make it seem serious, but not so serious that someone would call for an ambulance. When they did it right, a good Samaritan would offer them a ride or would hail and pay for a taxi to their hotel. The restaurant bill would be forgotten in the concern for the sick boy and his anxious brother. If anyone mentioned the bill, usually a patron or the restaurant would promise that it was taken care of. A few restaurants had even sent them a get-well card in care of their hotel, with vouchers for a free meal.
It was easier to pull off the con with a partner, but Neal could do it on his own. If he convinced them he was in pain, they'd bring in someone to help. But that someone would probably administer a painkiller that would leave him out of it again, and he hated to give up his recently acquired mental clarity.
"You know, I've changed my mind," Edmund said. "I'll give the hospital coffee a try, if you're still willing to bring me a cup."
"Coffee snob," said Irene fondly. "I thought you'd nod off before you'd be willing to try it." Neal heard the tap of her heals as she left the room.
"You aren't outnumbered anymore, Neal. Will you stop playing possum?"
Surprised, Neal opened his eyes, winced and squinted as he adjusted to the light. He stretched and tried to sit up.
"Here." Edmund handed him the control that adjusted the bed from flat into a seated position.
When Neal was sitting upright he asked, "What gave me away?"
"You can't expect a grandfather to give up all of his secrets. How else am I going to keep up with you youngsters?"
Neal rubbed his eyes, and looking up toward the open doorway he thought he saw someone. Not someone he knew, and incongruous for being there this time of night and not wearing scrubs. He blinked and the person was gone. A man, he thought. Bald, but taller than Mozzie. Closer to Neal's height. He pushed back the blankets and started to slip out of bed.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Bathroom," said Neal. Edmund stood and Neal steadied himself against his grandfather's shoulder until he felt confident of his balance. The bathroom door was near the room's entrance, and looking into the hall he caught another glimpse of the stranger. He resembled the photo Neal had seen of Seamus Bickerton, the lawyer he was supposed to meet in Boston with the contents of Adler's safe.
The reminder of the case brought the same kind of clarity that working on a heist did on those rare occasions he was sick. Instead of meandering aimlessly, his mind came into laser focus. He suspected it couldn't last long against the drugs in his system. He had to act quickly to take advantage of it.
When Neal opened the bathroom door again, he had a plan. It started with insisting he wanted to sit in one of the room's chairs rather than returning to the bed. Then he asked, "Is it possible to get some food? I'm finally starting to feel hungry."
Edmund offered to find out, and that finally left Neal alone. He pulled his belongings from a shelf near the chair, putting on a pair of socks and sliding his cell phone into a pocket in his sweat pants. He yanked off the patient ID around his wrist and tossed it on the table. Then he walked to the door. To his surprise, he found himself face-to-face with his grandmother. They stared at each other a moment. Then he leaned in to whisper, "Tell Henry I'm missing," and slipped away with one of the cups of coffee she'd been holding.
He strode confidently in the direction of the waiting area, looking like a late-night visitor. But before he reached the exit he turned down a hallway, pulled out his phone, and dialed Bickerton's number. Peering around the corner, he saw the man pull out a vibrating phone. Neal ducked back down the hall and found an empty room. He closed the door and said, "Mr. Bickerton? This is Nick Halden. Sorry about missing our appointment today. Things got a little complicated at Enscombe. Can we reschedule?"
"I heard about yesterday's mishap, Mr. Caffrey. Having anticipated that you wouldn't be able to travel to Boston, I took it upon myself to come to New York. In fact, I've only recently arrived at the hospital to pay my respects."
"Very thoughtful of you. I don't have the items you wanted on me. They're stashed safely, though. I could meet you Saturday. Tell me what hotel you're staying at."
"That's really not necessary," Bickerton said. "I see you've slipped out of your room, but I'll wait for your return in the hallway right outside. Be back in three minutes, or I may have to inconvenience the lovely couple who have been with you tonight. Your grandparents, perhaps?"
Neal wasn't ready to get to know his grandparents. He certainly wasn't ready to endanger them. "Fooled you, huh? FBI babysitters. They're waiting to question me as soon as they realize I'm recovered. I've been acting sleepy and loopy all day, hoping for a chance to slip the leash." He gulped down a portion of the coffee, hoping to add caffeine to the adrenaline coursing through his system. He needed every advantage he could get.
Had his grandmother called Henry yet? How long till he would arrive?
"Then tell me where you are," Bickerton said. "We have things to discuss, and I prefer not to do it over the phone."
"I prefer a little more anonymity."
"How unfortunate for you. Two minutes to meet me face-to-face in the hall." Bickerton hung up.
Neal removed the lid from the coffee and took another gulp. His phone vibrated with a text message from Henry: "There in 10. If Hospital Game UR in trouble."
Neal texted back: "No game. Diversion in 1. Get family away from room." He hurried back down the hall, then turned the corner to walk casually toward his room. "Okay, Bickerton," he said as he approached the lawyer. "I thought you'd want more privacy than this, but here I am."
A nurse hushed them. Bickerton moved closer to Neal so that he could speak more softly and still be heard. "Thank you for being reasonable. You're right, this isn't an ideal location. All I ask is that you join me in my car for a brief discussion, and then I won't trouble you any further."
Neal heard voices from his room. Henry must have gotten the message and called their grandparents. He saw their grandmother peek out at him. Behind Bickerton's back, she waved and gave a thumbs up. "Sure," said Neal, turning in the direction that would take them to the elevators. He took a step and looked back. "You coming? It's this way." Gesturing broadly with his right hand, he spilled the remaining coffee all over Bickerton. Then he ran for it. With any luck, Bickerton would instinctively give chase, forgetting his threat against the occupants of Neal's room long enough for them to get away. Then if Bickerton returned to the room, he wouldn't have them as hostages.
Neal had studied a map of the floor on his excursion, and ran with a destination in mind: the staircase. He was good at running. The only sport he'd cared for in high school had been track, and he used that experience to outpace Bickerton now. He reached the door to the staircase at the perfect time, slipping through and letting the door close behind him. It had a pressurized system to ensure the door would open and close slowly; no banging to disturb patients. No way could Bickerton miss the sight of the door softly clicking into place. Sure enough, the lawyer pushed the door open, heard footsteps going up and pursued. When the lawyer was a floor above him, Neal slid out from behind the door. With luck Bickerton would be several flights up before he realized he was chasing a nurse who happened to be going up when Neal reached the door.
Heading to the elevators, Neal read the list of what could be found on each floor. He pressed down. In the elevator, Neal grinned as he recalled another time he'd gone running. Henry had been letting himself go when he first found Neal, and outrunning him had become a favorite hobby. Finally Henry had gotten into the habit of jogging with Neal in the mornings, and now he belonged to a gym. He was too competitive to let his cousin leave him in the dust. Making Henry stay in shape was the only favor Neal had been able to do in return for saving his life.