Chapter 15: Nightmares – The Set Up

Content warning: From the previous chapters of this story, you know Neal was abused as a child. Further detail will be revealed here, with graphic descriptions of his injuries.

Neal's apartment, New York City. January 7, 2004 – Wednesday evening.

When Neal and Henry arrived, the Ellingtons' home was dark. June had said she wanted to take Byron out to a movie if he felt up to it. Even in his rush to make sure everyone followed his plan, Henry had to pause when they stepped inside the mansion and turned on the lights. Neal enjoyed the look of awe on his cousin's face.

"You live here?" Henry asked. "This is better than the Ambassador's house."

"Home sweet home. Right up these stairs. Speaking of which, why are you carrying your luggage in here, if we're staying at Peter's house?"

"I don't need all of this for an overnight stay. I left the smaller bag in the car."

"And why are you bringing the larger bag upstairs?"

"Well, obviously I'm staying with you tomorrow night through the weekend. I've already checked out of my hotel."

Neal had learned through long experience that his best bet was to keep asking, "Why?"

"I've finished the business portion of this trip. The company won't pay for any more nights at a hotel, but I want to stick around awhile."

"Why?"

"To see where you live, how you're doing." Henry paused as they reached the door to Neal's apartment, and Neal opened it. "Nice. I love the view. And also," he said, returning to what he'd been saying before, "you know Robert hates it when I drop off the radar. No hotel, no credit card charges, no way to spy on me."

"He also hates it when you call him Robert."

"I only do it when he's working, or when he's being a jerk."

"Which is most of the time," Neal said.

"Exactly. Then once in a blue moon I call him Dad and it totally freaks him out. Last time he asked if I was dying. Did I see a piano downstairs?"

Neal finished placing clothing into an overnight bag and headed toward the bathroom for a toothbrush and razor. "Yeah." A minute later he was back, closing the bag. "And I still play better than you."

They kept up that old argument on the way back to the car. Henry didn't ask for directions the Burke's townhouse, which didn't surprise Neal. He knew Henry would have already researched Peter Burke and learned his address. His question back at the bar had been meant to learn if Neal had been invited to the Burke residence before today.

The entrance to the Burke home was tight, with two people removing their coats, Satchmo trying to greet them, and Peter checking in on them. They couldn't help bumping into each other. Neal barely noticed Henry taking their phones and watches.

###

Elizabeth Burke did not completely understand why Neal and his cousin Henry would be spending the night. She wasn't convinced that Peter knew either. He seemed divided between wanting to observe them, and dreading whatever they had planned.

Almost as soon as the two young men arrived, it was clear Peter wanted to pull Neal into a private conversation. El accommodatingly engaged Henry in a discussion. "Peter said you're some kind of psychologist?"

"You could call that a part of my role." Henry glanced back at Peter and Neal as they sat on the sofa. He didn't seem at all annoyed at being excluded from their conversation. In fact, he looked satisfied. When he returned his attention to El he said, "I didn't want to say anything in front of Neal, but I'm worried about him. I can tell he hasn't been sleeping well. His energy level is too low. What I have in mind for this evening should tire him out, him and Peter both, in fact. The best thing for them would be to go straight to bed as soon as we're done. Since it gets dark early this time of year, I think we can convince them it's later than it actually is, and they'll go along when we tell them it's time to turn in. Can you help me with that?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"If there are clocks on the stove or microwave, turn them off. If there are alarm clocks in the bedrooms, make them hard to see. Maybe put something in front of them, or turn them around." Henry took off his watch and slid it into a pocket. "I won't let them check their watches. Make sure they don't see yours." He glanced around the living room. The TV remote already blocked the view of the time displayed on the cable box.

"I'll deal with the kitchen appliances, first, and then take care of the bedrooms. Would you like something to drink?"

"Maybe. If we can avoid caffeine and alcohol. I don't want to keep them awake, and I don't want them buzzed, either."

"I have decaf coffee. Let them think they're getting caffeine, and then when they still feel tired they'll assume it's getting late."

Henry smiled. "I like the way you think."

###

"Any idea what he's up to?" Peter asked Neal, as Winslow started talking to El.

"He didn't tell me his plans. He likes to keep his cards close to his chest, and then amaze everyone with his big reveal."

Peter raised a brow.

"Okay. I might do that myself, occasionally."

"You're part of a team now, Neal. You're supposed to share your insights with the FBI, and work with us on planning what to do next."

This time Neal raised a brow. "Are you going to tell me you never give in to the temptation to show off?"

Peter tried to look stern, but couldn't quite pull it off. Instead he laughed. "You got me. Yes, sometimes I'll wait to confirm I'm right about a hunch before sharing it with the team." He watched Winslow follow El into the kitchen. "You trust him?"

"He's not going to steal the silverware or try to seduce Elizabeth, if that's what you mean."

"I mean whatever he has planned for you tonight. Do you think he might hurt you, even unintentionally?"

"No. Henry's a chess player. He was quiet for most of the drive over here, which means he was thinking through his strategy and options, a good ten moves out, at least. When he decides to mess with people's heads in a serious way, he doesn't take chances."

"You know he wants to mess with your head, and you're okay with it?"

Neal shrugged. "About ninety percent okay with it. The first ninety percent of what he does here tonight will be the set up, and the last ten percent will be the trap. I've spent enough time with him to recognize the signs that he's setting the trap. If I don't want to fall into it, I'll still have time to walk away."

Winslow returned from the kitchen before Peter could ask more questions. "Elizabeth is making coffee. We'll get started soon. Neal, I left something in the trunk of the car. Would you mind getting it for me?" He tossed Neal a set of car keys.

Neal rolled his eyes. "And this is why you parked three blocks away. Yes, I'll leave you alone with Peter to talk about something you don't want me to hear. What's in the trunk?"

"My guitar."

"Seriously? You think you're going to need your guitar tonight?"

"You never know."

Satchmo followed Neal to the entrance. "Is it okay to take Satch?"

"Go ahead," Peter said.

When Neal had the leash on the dog and was on his way out, Winslow took a seat on the chair across from Peter and said, "You know you're a father figure to him. What I haven't figured out is if you think of him as a son."

Peter narrowed his eyes as he considered Winslow's comment. "I don't see the distinction. If I feel like a father figure toward Neal, then that implies he seems like a son."

"Does it?"

"Stop beating around the bush and make your point, if you have one."

Winslow crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned back further in his chair, making a show of being relaxed and in charge. "Has he ever called you Dad?"

"Yeah, a few times. As a joke."

"And you were okay with that?"

Peter kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table, purposely mirroring Winslow's casual confidence. "I am."

"And have you ever called him Son?"

"No."

"And why is that?"

"It's different." Peter paused. El would be better at this conversation. He knew there was an important point to be made, but he couldn't find the words to explain it. "Neal is... If I said..." He gave up. "Calling him Son is different than being called Dad."

"Neal's more emotional than you are," Winslow said.

"I... I guess so," Peter said, unsure where this was headed. "At least outwardly. The Burke men are a stoic lot."

"I see. You don't call Neal Son because you're reserved. But you don't mind being called Dad. You like it, even if you won't show it?"

"I show it," Peter protested. "I told him I'm honored. And a little scared. He knows I take it seriously."

"You don't think Neal would like to be called Son?"

"That's..." Peter struggled with the answer. "He might."

"Why are you withholding something you think he would like? Is there something he has to do first to deserve it?"

"No! I wouldn't treat him like that."

Winslow shrugged. "If you say so."

Peter frowned. "You don't think... I mean he's not... He'd say something if... No. He knows how I felt about being chosen as a father figure. He knows it works both ways."

"Of course he does. He's a smart guy. You don't have to spell things out for him."

"Right. Like how he knew you sent him to the car so he wouldn't hear this conversation."

"Exactly," Winslow said. "Not that you would mind if he heard."

Somehow Peter thought it was good Neal hadn't heard the conversation, and then he tried to put his finger on why. Neal wouldn't be hurt by the fact Peter wasn't ready to call him Son, right? There was absolutely no reason to feel guilty about that.

"Where's Neal?" El asked as she carried three mugs of coffee into the living room.

"He'll be back in a minute," Winslow said, as he stood up. "Here, do you want this chair?"

"No," El said. "I'm going to take a shower and change into pajamas while you guys do your thing. I'll be back down in a while."

"I didn't realize it was getting that late," Peter said. He started to turn his wrist to check his watch, but Henry stopped him.

"Try not to check the time while we're doing this. I don't want Neal to think we're in a hurry, or feel any pressure to rush. Let it take as long as it takes."

El gave Peter a quick kiss. "I'll be down in a bit." She headed for the stairs.

Before Peter could ask what Winslow had in mind for tonight, Neal and Satchmo were back with the guitar.

"Oh, that looks interesting," El said, before going upstairs.

Neal placed the guitar case against a bookcase and returned to the sofa beside Peter. He glanced at the mugs. "Coffee?"

"It's going to be a long night," Winslow said. "Try to stay alert."

"What did I miss?" Neal asked.

"We were talking about father figures," his cousin said. "Back in the pub I mentioned that your past father figures haven't been stellar. What do you think they had in common?"

Neal took a sip of the coffee before answering. "They wanted something from me. And sometimes I've wondered... Did they see something of themselves in me? Something of their own greed or... or evil?"

Peter would have objected, but Winslow beat him to it. "I'd say it's the other way around. They saw something in you that was missing in themselves. Intelligence, and talent, and decency."

Neal shook his head. "They were all intelligent."

"Not as bright as you, though," Winslow said. "No," he said, before Neal could argue, "it's obvious they thought you were brighter and that made them resentful enough to mistreat you. But that's something we can cover another day. Let's focus on what makes Peter different from them."

"That's easy. Peter is the only one of them who has something I want to emulate. He has the whole picket-fence thing going on. House, family, dog, and a job as a professional good guy. Everything that was my dream as a kid. When I ran away, I thought I had to give that dream up. For a long time I believed it was all a lie, that no one really had that. Eventually I thought it might exist, but not for me."

"You can have that," Peter insisted. "You have so much potential. If you can manage to stay on the right path, you can do amazing things. It was obvious, from the moment we talked in that bar in St. Louis, that you have a lot of good in you. There you were, intending to rob a museum, and still your first instinct was to help me. You sacrificed your share of the take because you thought I was in danger, and I was immediately impressed by the decency and intelligence your cousin mentioned. If I can foster the good in you, help you realize your full potential, that would be incredibly rewarding."

Neal stared into his coffee mug. "Thanks, Peter. That means a lot to me." He looked up almost shyly. "I'll try to make you proud."

"I know you will," Peter said.

"Foster the good," Winslow repeated. "As in a foster parent? Is that how you would describe your relationship?"

"You like labeling things," Peter said.

"Names have power," Winslow responded. "Agreeing on a name for something builds a common understanding. But I get it if that makes you uncomfortable in this case."

Peter saw that Neal was staring into his coffee mug again, and said, "I didn't say that I was uncomfortable."

"You didn't have to," Winslow said. "But we don't have all night. Let's talk about the flashbacks you mentioned. You said there were three of them?"

"Do we have to go there?" Neal asked.

"If you want the flashbacks to stop, then yes, we have to. Peter, which flashback freaked you out the most, and why?"

"Freaked me out? Is that a clinical term? Never mind." Peter held up a hand to forestall Winslow's response. "The last one was the worst. It was on the way back from the hospital in New Haven."

"I don't even remember that one," Neal said.

"That's part of what freaked me out about it. What you were saying was worse than during the other episodes. When you add on top of that the fact that a few minutes later you didn't recall any of those memories you had been reliving, or even that you'd had a flashback, it was scary. Honestly, even Jones was a little freaked by it."

"Tell us what Neal was remembering."

Peter gathered his thoughts. He hated even talking about it. "First he said 'Sasha, stay,' like he was talking to a dog. Then he mentioned a gun, and too much blood, and how someone was going to die and it was his fault. He kept on repeating that it was his fault. And we couldn't wake him up, at least, not until I called him Danny. So it was obviously a childhood memory."

"None of that rings any bells," Neal said.

Winslow walked to the overnight bag he'd brought, and pulled out a laptop. He booted it up, searched for a file, and then turned around the laptop on the coffee table so they could see the screen, which displayed a photo of a man in a suit. He was about forty, of Chinese ancestry. "Do you recognize him, Neal?"

Neal frowned at the photo. "I think he came to the house a few times, when I was a kid. Mom always sent me to my room when he visited. Who is he?"

"At the time of this photo, he was a U.S. Marshal assigned to your family in St. Louis. This was taken when you were sixteen. Mike is the father figure you didn't know you had."

"That doesn't make sense," Neal said. "How can someone be my father figure without my knowing about it?"

"Because at some level, he thought of you as a son. When you were nine and Vance abducted you, Mike helped the cops find you. He was there when you were found, and was there when you were in the hospital. The Marshals didn't want you or your mother to attend Vance's trial, but Mike went. And eight years later, when Vance was up for parole based on good behavior, Mike went to the prison to speak on your behalf, to argue that Vance should stay locked up."

"How do you know this?" Peter asked.

"I looked it up when I joined the family business. I wanted to make sure Vance wouldn't cause more trouble for Neal or for any other kids. I learned that when Mike went to the prison, he spoke to Vance and then to prison administrators, and he had a chance to see Vance's cell. The next day he started looking for another job. On his last day as a Marshal, he went back to the prison for one more visit."

"What did Mike see in Vance's cell?" Peter asked, picking up on the emphasis Winslow placed on that piece of the story.

"A photo of Neal. You see, as part of Vance's plea deal, everyone in the prison knew him as a kidnapper. But they didn't know he had abducted a child, much less abused that child. He told everyone the photo was of his son."

Neal drew in a sharp breath.

Winslow nodded. "On his second visit, Mike told a guard to take down that picture and explained it was of one of Vance's victims. He made sure to say it where several prisoners could hear. A few days later, Vance was dead."

"Mike made sure Vance never got out of prison," Neal said.

"To keep you safe, yes. I would have done the same thing myself. One of the reasons I was interested in joining the family business was to find out Vance's status, and to take care of him myself, if need be. If I'd found he was in prison with that photo in his cell, I'd have done the same thing." Winslow looked at Peter. "What about you?"

"No." Peter looked at the two cousins in dismay. "He was tried in a court of law, and he was serving his time. That's justice. This Mike person shouldn't have intervened like that, and neither should you. Nothing gives you the right to take the law into your own hands. He should have shared what he saw with the parole board, and let them take it from there."

"Mike didn't agree. He thought the law didn't offer sufficient protection for an innocent child he felt responsible for. He did what a father would do."

"Even your father?" Neal asked.

Winslow nodded. "Even mine. He can be a jerk, and misguided, and I hate what he did to you. But the fact is, it was his own messed up way of protecting me. If I'd been the one Vance had abducted, my dad would have done the same thing Mike did. What about your dad, Agent Burke? What would he have done?"

Peter shrugged. "My dad was a bricklayer. It's not the same thing as being an officer of the law."

"Your profession shouldn't make a difference," Winslow said. "If you're a dad, then you're a dad first."

"I can't accept that," Peter said. "Being an FBI agent is too ingrained in who I am to be ignored. If I start making exceptions in personal cases, then I'm perverting justice, and I can't do that. I'd have to leave the Bureau."

"The way Mike left the Marshals," Winslow said. "Let me show you something else." He spent a moment typing, then turned around the laptop to face Peter again. This time it displayed a crime scene photo. On a background of beat-up linoleum flooring was a wide pool of blood.

"Is that chalk outline?" Neal asked.

"Yeah," Winslow confirmed.

"Why didn't they finish drawing the outline?" Peter asked.

"The person drawing it stopped when he realized the victim was still alive, barely."

After a moment of silence, Neal asked, "The victim was me?"

"That's right. There was so much blood, you looked so bad, everyone thought you were dead. The paramedics were treating a gun-shot victim instead, until the person processing the scene noticed you were struggling to breathe."

"Are those paw prints in the blood?" Peter asked.

"Good eye," Winslow said. "A German Shepherd named Sasha belonged to the man who'd been shot, but she kept walking back to Neal and whining."

Neal looked pale. He stood up and said he was going to get more coffee.

When Neal was on his way to the kitchen, Winslow reached around the laptop to press a button, and another photo displayed. In this shot, a young boy lay in the pool of blood. He probably had dark hair, but it was too matted with blood be positive. His T-shirt was too splattered with blood to tell if it had originally been a solid color or had a pattern. His right arm was at an awkward angle, broken.

"Neal?" Peter asked in a low voice. When Winslow nodded, Peter let his head fall into his hands. He felt sick. "Oh, God." He heard the clattering of a keyboard, and saw Winslow close the laptop. "If you want to give Neal nightmares, why don't you show him that photo?"

"That's not how his mind works," Winslow said. "He'd be more upset by the photos of the man with the bullet wound."

"Because he feels responsible for the man being shot?"

"You're starting to get it, Agent Burke."

Peter was glad he didn't have to look at that photo of nine-year-old Neal anymore, but didn't know if he'd ever be able to forget what he'd seen. He'd never felt as much anger as he did right now toward the man who had inflicted that damage. "My dad would have hit Vance over the head with a brick."

"That's –" Winslow started, but then Neal returned.

Instead of coffee, he brought back a glass of water. He didn't seem as pale as he had a few minutes ago, but the water probably meant the first photo and conversation about Vance left him nauseated. With good reason. Neal looked tired, Peter thought. "Maybe we should call it a night," Peter suggested.

"We can't stop now," Winslow said. "We're finally ready for the experiment I wanted to try."