Enscombe estate on Long Island. Thursday afternoon. February 26, 2004.

Mozzie delivered another water disguised as Scotch on the rocks to Neal in the Enscombe dining area. Lunch had ended and the "initiation event" had started. To Mozzie it looked like speed dating for job seekers. Neal and George remained at their table, visited by a constant stream of people. At first they were Highbury employees, offering advice on Nick Halden's resume or asking mock interview questions. The next group to drop by the table were members of Highbury who talked to "Nick" about their companies and described jobs that might be a good fit for him. A few were there to speak to George, and some of them also stopped to talk to job seekers at other tables.

Mozzie sighed as he listened to a perky young woman describe the joys of account management. Convincing clients to give you more money was such a great set up for a con, and she was sucking all the life out of it. Corporations were merely legitimized criminal operations, turning employees into unthinking drones who took money from equally unthinking masses. Faceless companies appropriated the conman's art form and made it boring. He rolled his eyes as he took an order for a strawberry daiquiri. What a waste of rum.

All of the workers at Enscombe received a list of clients expected each day, with photos, and were expected to greet visitors by name. Neal was the only new client on today's list. Several expected visitors had cancelled, due to the sinkhole blocking the main road into the area. The extra hour added to the round trip had deterred some people from making the drive. It had made Neal late getting here, but the initiation event was going to be shorter than planned due to the smaller number of participants. Mozzie estimated it would be about fifteen minutes before Neal met with Frank Churchill.

Plenty of time to search his office, as Frank was currently in the dining area flirting with Jane Fairfax. If Mozzie had time, he'd try to help her see that she could do much better than a man who thought a light beer was the ideal drink. Some people had no imagination.

The suits had given him a bug to plant in Frank's office, to serve as a backup in case anything happened to Neal's watch. Mozzie placed it under the mahogany desk top. "Testing," he said. "The rain forest weeps for the illegal logging that likely brought you this hiding place."

###

"Who is this guy?" asked Graham Winslow, who was assigned to listen to the bug Mozzie placed while Henry listened to the feed from Neal's watch.

"Paranoid criminal genius with a warped social conscience," Henry said. "And a friend of Neal's."

"What have we got?" asked Peter, who had been giving an update to Hughes.

"Neal's still networking," said Henry. "Mozzie planted the bug."

"Now he's searching Churchill's office," Graham added.

"He was supposed to plant the bug and get out of there. If he abandons his post as bartender he'll raise suspicion."

"He's found something," Graham said. "They store the drugs in a cabinet in the office."

"Let's hear it," said Peter, pressing the button that put the office bug on speaker.

"Same drug name and manufacturer, but two types of packaging. Some are in a red box and some are in blue," Mozzie was saying.

"What does the color signify?" Peter asked.

"I don't know," Henry said. "It was more than a year ago when I did my research. At that time there was only one version of the drug, and it was packaged in red. I don't get it. If they came up with a revised formula, I should have seen something about it in the industry journals."

"Someone's approaching from the hall," Mozzie said. "I'll slip out the back."

"I'll call Win-Win," Graham said, "get them to contact the manufacturer." He went up to the deck where he'd get a clearer signal for his cell phone.

From the bug, they heard a male voice say, "No, grab one of the blue boxes this time."

The voice they knew as Jane Fairfax responded, "I haven't had a chance to read the packaging on those. And there's a whole page of instructions inside the box, you know."

"I know, same as for the red boxes. You're not a doctor, Jane. The red ones are expiring. The blue ones are new. We want to use the best, newest stuff. Do your job and don't overcomplicate it."

They heard what sounded like a box being torn open. Soon Jane said, "It's ready."

"Good girl. Aw, don't pout, now. I know you don't like this part, but keep thinking about that big wedding we can afford with the bonuses we get from doing this. We're getting close. And it's not like we hurt anyone."

"It always scares me when they've been drinking. The warnings clearly state you should avoid alcohol."

"The drunker they are, the faster we get through this. C'mon and give me a kiss for luck and then we'll bring in the newest member."

###

Mozzie handed Neal a third faux Scotch on the rocks moments before Frank Churchill approached the table and introduced himself as the manager of Highbury's Enscombe operations. "Come back to my office," he said. "My assistant Jane and I will have a quick chat with you. We want to hear your thoughts on the opportunities you heard about today. And we'll share a few suggestions from the career coaches who spoke to you and listened in on your conversations during the networking."

"Sure," Neal didn't quite slur the word, but came close, and he gave Frank a big sloppy grin designed to give the impression that he was buzzed.

"I'll walk with you," said George. "Since it isn't raining yet I'm going to change into sweats and shoot some hoops."

Neal nodded, recalling that the basketball hoops were near the patio off of Frank's office. It would have George immediately available if Neal needed help. "Maybe I'll join you later," he said.

"Don't count on it," Frank cautioned as they left the dining room. "New members stress themselves out. By the time we finish the initiation, most of them want to rest. That's a big reason we encourage clients to stay the night. Those who –"

Suddenly a side door opened and Jane Fairfax rushed through. She seemed to bounce off Frank and stumble directly into Neal, knocking him against the wall of the narrow, dark paneled hall. She'd been holding a wide metal platter, which ended up pressed between them. As Jane stepped away, Neal stared down at the wood chips and dried flowers fluttering down from his chest. It smelled like he'd been attacked by a forest, and the scent was so overpowering he sneezed a couple of times.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Halden. We make our own potpourri here, and I was going to set this out to dry." Jane tried to brush away the stray pieces lingering on his shirt, and Neal grabbed her hands as they neared his belt.

"I got it," Neal said. He took off his jacket and tie, shaking them to get rid of the potpourri, but the scent wasn't going away anytime soon.

"Too bad you chose not to stay the night," Frank said. "Then you'd have a change of clothes. We have laundry facilities here. We can clean these for you and lend you a spa robe for now. Jane, will you find a robe?"

"Of course. Don't worry, Mr. Halden. I've had a few spills before and I can promise it doesn't leave a stain."

"That's right," Frank said, putting an arm around Neal and leading him toward the office. "When you get home you'll never know it happened."

"Looks like you're in good hands," said George as he neared the corridor leading to the guest rooms. "I'll see you later."

In Frank's office Neal was subjected to a flurry of activity. Frank was urging him to take off his shirt quickly, before the essential oils set into the fabric. Jane was handing Frank a robe and taking Neal's shirt from him. Another person Neal didn't recognize whisked away Neal's shirt, tie and jacket, promising to bring them back in an hour. Frank was holding the robe and Neal had just slipped his right arm in it when he felt the shot in his left shoulder. He looked around to see Jane holding a needle.

They really had this down. Neal hoped he remembered how they managed it when this was over, so he could tell Peter. He didn't know if the FBI ever needed to drug people, but even as a general distraction their routine was worth emulating. Now he looked at Jane and said, "What are you doing?"

"Tetanus shot," said Frank as he slipped Neal's left hand into the second sleeve. "Just in case. That tray had sharp edges."

"You keep tetanus shots on hand?" Neal asked as Frank guided him toward a chair.

"Of course," Frank said. "We take care of our guests. All of the employees learn basic first aid. Jane's the best at giving shots. Her son takes insulin."

Neal blinked and took a deep breath, faking the lethargy Henry had described as the first effects of the drug. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Just clear your mind," said Frank. "Forget about the potpourri and the shot. They aren't important and you aren't going to think about them again."

"Mm-hmm." Neal yawned. "Tired."

"All you have to do is answer a few questions and then you can sleep. Where did you last see Gil Goddard?"

###

The transmitters in Neal's watch and the bug were small, so as not to gather attention. They offered only a one-way feed. Tricia and Jones had two-way devices. Peter told both of them to get in position, ready on his command to make the arrest and extract Neal. Jones sprinted up the stairs leading from the dock, waiting behind the hedge closest to Frank's office. Tricia made her way to her hiding spot, and then kept her binoculars trained on the office.

Peter sent Henry and Graham up to sail the boat to Enscombe's dock. They were minutes away from making an arrest, but Peter wasn't going to call this op a success until he saw for himself that Neal was safely in the hands of a psychologist. Henry would be with Neal on the drive to Manhattan, where Noelle would meet them. Her flight back from Baltimore should have landed twenty minutes ago.

They were only halfway to the dock when Peter heard Neal faking the first symptoms of an overdose. Peter checked his watch. According to Henry, Neal shouldn't be feeling the effects this soon. What they had recorded so far was interesting, but not as incriminating as Peter had hoped. They hadn't mentioned Adler by name, nor had they asked Nick Halden to reveal anything that could be used for blackmail. Simply having a supply of Flashback and drugging Neal would get a conviction, but they hadn't handed Peter as much bargaining power as the Bureau had wanted.

"Something's wrong," Peter heard Jane say. "It's like he's had an overdose. I told you we should have read the instructions on the blue box."

Frank asked Neal another question about Goddard.

"Frank, listen to me," Jane insisted. "We've got to get him to a hospital. He could die."

Frank finally asked a question about Adler. Neal answered, and then convinced them he was nearly unconscious. "C'mon, wake up," Frank said. "You've got to tell me what the FBI knows about Adler."

"He doesn't... do things... by the book," Neal murmured.

Peter ordered Jones and Tricia to move in.

"Frank, stop this," said Jane. "He needs help."

"You don't get it, do you? We can't take a client into a hospital with an overdose. That leads to an investigation and then we're arrested. We have to spend every last second getting information out of him, and then we'll have to dispose of the body."

Then there were too many voices to follow. Frank demanding more information from Neal, Jane saying she was going to call 911 anyway, and Jones and Tricia yelling at everyone to move away from Neal and put their hands up.

###

Neal stepped out onto the patio to get away from the chaos and clear his head. He blinked as he tried to focus on his watch. After a moment of staring at it, he was pretty sure it said 2:30. Probably ten minutes since they'd drugged him. He should have another twenty minutes before he fell asleep, but already he felt exhausted.

What kind of resort didn't have decent chairs on the patio? There was a ledge where you could sit and look down at the water. Neal considered that. He felt too dizzy to balance on the ledge, and the thought of watching the waves made him queasy. There had been lounge chairs by the pool. Those had looked comfortable. Now which way was the pool?

Neal caught sight of the pool and started in that direction, but the dizziness got worse. He had to keep a hand on the side of the building to stay upright. He paused and tried to figure out how he would manage the walk across the open lawn to reach those lounge chairs.

Leaning against the wall, he tried to orient himself. He wasn't far from the master suite. There was a bed in there, if he could unlock the door to get inside. He'd also seen a porch swing outside. It wasn't as nice as a bed but better than sitting on grass that was still soaked from last night's downpour.

As he finally lowered himself onto the porch swing, he had to admit that he really was experiencing the symptoms of an overdose.

Almost 2:35 now. He'd pass out in fifteen minutes, and by 3:00 he'd stop breathing. It was thirty minutes to the nearest hospital, and the detour around the sinkhole added another thirty minutes to the trip. The numbers swirled in his head and were hard to hold onto, but it was obvious that he was going to die this afternoon.

He wondered if he should call someone. Maybe it would be nice to have someone here with him. But then they would have to watch him die. He hadn't liked watching Byron die. Neal sighed and started singing "Nobody Knows the Trouble" as he tried to decide what to do.

###

Peter dashed up from the dock while Henry and Graham were still securing the sailboat. He found Fairfax and Churchill in handcuffs, with Jones and Tricia doing a preliminary search of the office.

"Where's Neal?" he asked them.

"He stepped outside a few minutes ago," Tricia said. "Last I checked he was staring out toward the water. I thought he was watching for your arrival. You didn't see him?"

"No. Tricia, keep an eye on those prisoners. Backup is on the way to take them off your hands and process the scene. Jones, let's look for Neal."

Back on the patio, Peter saw three options. He eliminated the option that Neal might have walked down toward the dock. Peter would have seen him on the way up. That left east toward the pool and B&B or west toward the tennis courts and spa. Jones was more familiar with the routes leading toward the B&B, so Peter went west.

###

Seeing Clinton and Peter step outside, George Knightley guessed it was safe to approach Churchill's office without interrupting the op. He called out as Clinton started jogging in the direction of the pool.

Clinton changed direction, running over to George to ask, "Did you see where Caffrey went?"

"No. Couple of guys decided to join me at the hoops, and I couldn't keep staring at Churchill's office without raising questions. Smoked 'em. They didn't believe I was wearing a prosthesis." George scanned the area as he spoke. "There! That's a spa robe like Neal was wearing." Someone wearing a robe like that should have been headed to the spa, but this person was around the corner from the master suite. He disappeared from view as he followed the corner of the building, but George and Clinton ran after him. They found Neal on a porch swing, humming mournfully.

"You don't have to stay," Neal told them.

George took his pulse and studied Neal's pupils. "Dizzy?" he asked.

"Yeah," Neal answered.

"Nauseated?"

"At first. Not so much now. Really tired though."

"Still pretending to overdose?" Clinton asked.

"He's not faking."

"I know," Neal said. "Sucks, doesn't it? Too late to drive to the hospital. This is nice, though. It's kind of pretty here." Rain started falling and he scowled as drops fell on his face. "Get me to the door. I can pick it. There's a bed in there. If I can get to that I'll be okay. You don't have to stay," he repeated.

"You're not giving up yet," George said, putting an arm around Neal. "Clinton, help me get him on his feet. I hope to God you're still a licensed pilot because we're taking him to that helicopter."

###

Officially Henry and Graham's part of the operation was over. They were supposed to wait until Peter invited them up from the sailboat to escort Neal back to Manhattan. But Henry shared Neal's disdain for following orders. He'd grabbed the backup two-way radio Peter had left on the boat, and was flipping through the channels while he and Graham walked up from the dock.

Tricia was asking when the team assigned to process the scene was going to show up so she could help Peter. Peter was asking a bystander if she'd seen Nick Halden. Jones was reporting that he thought he saw Neal. Then Henry hit the feed from Neal's watch. It was the only the signal that wouldn't let him send a response back. He listened with dismay.

Henry couldn't get back to the feed from Jones without cycling through them all again. Damn the FBI and their skimpy government budgets. By now he was on the patio, watching a swarm of agents in FBI jackets fill Churchill's office. Tricia was headed down a corridor toward the front of the building, and Henry followed with Graham.

Back to Tricia's feed. She was asking Peter for a status. Peter was asking Jones for a status. Finally back to Jones.

"... by helicopter. Haven't flown one of these since I left the Navy. But if I can land on a moving ship, I can land on a hospital."

Neal laughed. "Peter always says I have a flight instinct. Really going to fly this time."

"Let's get you buckled in. That's right. Ready when you are, Clinton."

"Hey, Jones, how'd you get them to lend you a helicopter?"

"We commandeered it, Caffrey."

"Huh. You stole that for me?"

Following Tricia out the main entrance, Henry heard the helicopter, and watched it take off. He hit the send button on the radio to tell Jones, "You take care of him." But Jones didn't respond; he was talking to an air traffic controller who had patched him into a trauma hospital with a helicopter pad. The hospital was called Jacobi, Henry heard. Knowing the destination he wanted to reach, he turned to Tricia. "Where's your car?"

She gestured toward the east. "We parked at the B&B."

"Too far," muttered Henry. "We'll have to steal one of these." Several Highbury guests had parked along the circle drive, and Henry started walking toward the car that looked the fastest.

Tricia took hold of his jacket and spun him around. "That's not how we do things."

Peter ran over to them. "We need a car."

Several people had gathered outside, asking about the apparent FBI raid and the helicopter. One of them stood next to a luxury car and was dressed like a driver. "You!" Tricia said, walking up to him and pulling out her badge. "Who does this car belong to?"

"H-H-Highbury," he said, clearly intimidated. "I'm gonna take Mr. Churchill back to Manhattan for a meeting."

"Change of plans," Tricia informed him. "Give me the keys."

The driver looked like he wanted to protest, but gave up the keys without a word.

"I'll drive," Peter said.

"Not on your life," Tricia responded. "You're too upset, and you know you're going to be on that radio the whole time, trying to talk to Jones. You take shotgun."

Henry and Graham slid into the backseat before Tricia could start the engine and speed away without them. Within minutes she came to a stop at a roadblock, and rolled down the driver's side window. "What's the hold up?" she asked.

"Sinkhole opened up this morning," said a man wearing the bright vest of a road construction crew member. "We've cleared out the debris, but the engineers are still checking out the road for structural integrity. Only emergency vehicles are getting through right now. There's a detour –"

Tricia flashed her badge again. "We're on our way to the hospital. Let us through."

Henry elbowed Graham, who obligingly closed his eyes and groaned.

"Please, Pops," Henry said. "Hold on. We're almost there."

"Call my lawyer," Graham said on a moan. "I'm going to put you back in my will."

"These are rich people," Tricia said to the road worker. "They'll sue anyone who gets in the way of taking Mr. Winslow to the hospital. You want to tell me your name for the record?"

The man waved them through. Tricia rolled up her window.

"If you ever want a job, young lady," Graham said as the car started moving again.

"You can't hire anyone, Pops. You're retired from Win-Win." Henry's heart wasn't in the joke this time, but he squeezed Graham's hand, silently thanking him for trying to keep things upbeat.

"Jones, what's your status?" Peter asked. "Jones? Come in."

They heard a burst of static, followed by, "We have clearance to land. George, how's Caffrey doing?"

"Get us landed pronto, Clinton. He's passed out and his breathing is way too shallow."

Graham's cell phone beeped. He pulled it out to read the text message from Win-Win: "Blue box = concentrated formula. 3X normal dose."

Henry's blood ran cold as he read the message. "No," he said. They probably didn't hear him in the front seat, because the words on Graham's phone had stolen his breath. This wasn't a minor overdose. Neal might not make it.

A/N: Thanks again to Silbrith for acting as editor, beta and location scout. She recommended Jacobi as a trauma hospital with a helipad near Long Island.