Chapter 12

St. Louis. Thursday, December 4, 2003.

It was almost 2:30am when Peter returned to the hotel room. He tried to be quiet, but probably didn't need to bother. Neal was in bed, asleep. The note on the nightstand said he'd taken the medicine at a quarter to 1:00. As much as Peter itched to tuck away that note as a handwriting sample for future reference, he left it alone. He double-checked that the medicine bottle's seal had been broken, and that the bottle wasn't completely full.

He missed talking to Elizabeth. No matter how many times he told her not to wait up, she always stayed awake until he got home from a planned confrontation with the bad guys. This time he'd texted her as soon as they had Villiers in cuffs, to let her know the op was over and he was safe.

He set the alarm clock and was about to slip into bed himself when he remembered the doctor's orders. Peter placed a hand on his roommate's forehead again, and chuckled when the kid grumbled in his sleep. Still running a temperature, but lower than the last time he'd checked.

"No," he protested when Peter pulled his hand away.

"What?" Peter asked, not sure if the kid was dreaming or really reacting to his presence.

"Cold." He rolled over onto his side and curled into himself for warmth. "It's too cold."

Peter turned on a lamp, and with the added light he could see his roommate was shivering. He found an extra blanket in the closet and placed it over the young man. Soon the shivering ceased, and Neal relaxed into a deep sleep.

Thinking that he could finally get some sleep himself, Peter jumped when the phone the con man had left on the desk started to vibrate. Neal remained completely out of it, not making a move or a sound in response. Looking at the display, Peter recognized the New York number of the person who had called when Neal was in the shower. The phone indicated that the caller had tried earlier and gone unanswered.

Who was this person who had learned of Townsend's arrest? Why had he asked if Neal had been given any mind-controlling substances?

Impulsiveness was Neal's trait, not Peter's. But an FBI agent learned that sometimes you had mere seconds to make major decisions in a case. The caller had some sort of working relationship with Neal, and Peter had the impression they had known each other for a while. This was a rare opportunity to get insight into Neal's life from the perspective of what Peter could only call the competition. It could make a difference in the Caffrey Conversation, which seemed tantalizingly close now. Peter picked up the phone and took the call, going on the offensive. "We need to talk about Neal."

"Who is this?" It was a man's voice, older than Neal, closer to Peter's age.

"Peter Burke."

"Special Agent Peter Burke, of the FBI?"

"That's right."

"I think I have the wrong number."

"No, you don't. You have Neal's number, and I have Neal."

"What have you done with him? I swear, if he's in one of your secret government labs--"

"The FBI doesn't have secret government labs."

"Oh, right. And next you're going to tell me that the U.S. Marshals weren't established to guard alien prisoners who crash landed here over the years. Or that the supposed moon landing wasn't a cover for a visit by more aliens who were the real occupants of what we're told was the returning capsule."

"No, I'm not going to tell you any of those things," Peter said, "because they have nothing to do with Neal. And I haven't done anything to him."

"Then give him the phone and let me talk to him."

"He can't talk to you now. Not because of anything I've done," Peter interjected quickly because he could tell the caller was about to protest. "He had a high fever, which neither the government nor I were behind, and now he's taken a prescription-strength night-time medicine. He's out like a light, and will be for hours. It's just you and me. Let's talk about Neal. What exactly do you think his future is, if he sticks with his current life?"

"Fame, fortune, and a blissful retirement."

"He's twenty-four. That sounds like the dream of someone older."

"Well, he'll get older. And he likes his life. He's having fun, exercising his brain, seeing the world and acquiring excellent taste in wine. It's the ideal lifestyle."

"Since he's probably either going to land in prison or get killed in some overly risky scheme, I have to disagree. But he can do all of what you described, legally."

"Note my instant boredom with this conversation."

Peter sighed. "Listen, Dante—"

"Why are you calling me Dante?"

"Because I think you're going to lead Neal into some very bad places."

"Like the circles of hell in The Inferno. Maybe you aren't completely boring, Suit. But Dante wrote about paradise, too."

"I'm interested in the here and now. Neal has a chance right now that might never come to him again."

"A chance to be boring?" Dante asked.

"How about a chance to be happy?" Peter countered.

"He's happy now. He has everything he could want."

"I don't think so. He's searching for something. I don't know what it is. In fact, he might not even know what it is. But there's something missing in his life. Continuing to do what he's already doing isn't going to fix things. He knows he has to make a change, and I can help him."

"And I'm supposed to believe you're being benevolent here? There's more to this story. What do you gain from making Neal change into someone else?"

"Not into someone else, but into the person he could be, into who I think he wants to be. Are you saying you don't want him to have the chance to meet his full potential?"

"I don't want him to turn into a government-approved, mindless drone. And you didn't answer my question. What do you gain from this?"

Peter paused. He didn't think Dante would like or understand the truth, but he also thought the man would know if Peter lied or evaded on this issue. "It's about justice. That's what I want."

"I knew it! You want to Neal to turn himself in for his alleged crimes, while you get the credit for bringing him to justice."

"Justice isn't only about making wrong-doers pay. It's about the victims, too. That's why I work in white collar crimes, rather than solving violent crimes. In my job I can help restore a balance, help the victims regain what they lost. I can make things right again."

"You want Neal to lead you to a cache of money or stolen items so you can return it to his supposed victims!" Dante accused.

"No. That is, yes, I would like that. But that's not what I meant. What I'm trying to say is that somewhere along the line, an opportunity was stolen or lost. I want to restore the balance, to give Neal that opportunity again."

"So... You're saying Neal is a victim?"

"You could say that society is the victim when a person like Neal doesn't get the opportunity to become a contributing member. We're all undermined when that opportunity is stolen from us. If I can make that right, we all benefit."

"Really," Dante said drily.

"You're right. That does sound like something from a lecture at Quantico. It's just..." Peter stopped staring out at St. Louis and turned around to look at Neal. Not Caffrey of the FBI case file. Not a suspect Peter had been investigating. But Neal, a person who had surprised Peter by being both helpful and fun to work with. He was annoying, and amusing, and smart. He was smart enough to know he was going to ruin his life if he didn't change its direction soon. Hopefully Neal wanted the Caffrey Conversation as much as Peter did.

"Suit, are you still there? Wait. You're drawing out the call because you're tracking my location, aren't you? Well, good luck with that, because I never use a phone unless I know I can defeat any attempt to track it. Right now your government lackeys are pinpointing a cell tower somewhere in Eastern Europe."

"You know, we don't randomly track innocent people. But maybe you're feeling guilty about something. Do you have anything you'd like to get off your chest?" Peter chuckled into the silence. "All right. It's late, and even at the top of my game I'm not great at explaining this kind of thing. But I think when people are doing what they're meant to do, that's when they're happiest. And then the people around them, the people who matter, should be happy for them. And you're probably right that he's having fun with his life as it is now, but having fun in the short term isn't the same as being happy in the long term. That's where you and I diverge. You're offering fun, and I'm trying to offer fulfillment."

"Oh, I get it. You're another wannabe father figure."