St. Louis. Friday afternoon. Early December, 2003.

When Neal picked him up at the airport, Peter placed his luggage in the trunk of Neal's rental car and then opened the driver's door. "I said I'll drive. Go around to the passenger side."

"Listen, Peter. There's a stop I have to make on the way back to the hotel. It makes more sense for me to drive. I know the area better."

"Because you used to live here." Peter took Neal's frown as acknowledgement. He'd never met anyone more reluctant to talk about his past. Each time over the last couple of days the kid slipped up and mentioned a childhood memory while under the influence of a fever or prescription cold meds, you'd think he'd betrayed national secrets. "Great. You can navigate."

From the passenger seat, Neal gave directions toward the downtown area. Then he slumped in the seat, arms crossed, giving every indication he didn't want to talk.

"It was a zoo in there once they started cancelling flights," Peter said.

No response.

"What, you're going to sulk now?"

"Take the next exit and turn left." Neal closed his eyes.

Although there was plenty of time and space to merge into the next lane, Peter swerved sharply, causing Neal to slide into the door and open his eyes. Peter gave his best version of an evil smile. "Do I have your attention?"

"Eyes on the road!" Neal insisted as he sat up and clutched the arm rest. "God! Do you have a death wish?"

"Tell me where we're going," Peter said as he took the exit.

"I told you, take a left. It'll be about two miles."

"Two miles to what? C'mon, Neal. In a few minutes we'll be there and I'll know what our destination is."

"It's not the what I'm worried about, it's the why. We're going to the U.S. Marshals' office."

"Why?"

Neal sighed. "I don't know if I can tell you. Keeping it secret is part of the deal. I think."

"You realize that kind of non-answer just annoys me, don't you?"

"Here! End of this block on the right-hand side."

Peter gave up and parked. In the office building they were greeted by tall, Nordic blond U.S. Marshal Simon Preston who said, "Agent Burke. I didn't realize you would be joining us."

"Me neither," said Peter and Neal simultaneously.

Looking at Neal, the Marshal asked, "Have you told the FBI about your situation?"

"I haven't told anyone. Ever." Neal ran his hands through his hair in what Peter was learning to recognize as a sign of stress.

"All right," the Marshal said soothingly. "Let's take your fingerprints first. Then we'll talk."

A few minutes later in a conference room, Neal wiped the ink from his fingers and the Marshal asked, "What name do you go by now? Danny? Henry?"

"Neal."

"Is that wise?"

"It's who I am. Neal Caffrey."

"All right. Neal it is. As a soon-to-be employee of the FBI, it's reasonable to have someone in a supervisory capacity aware of your situation. Do you trust Agent Burke to be the person holding this information?"

"Yeah, but if it goes in my file –"

"Understood," the Marshal interrupted. "Agent Burke, will you sign a statement of confidentiality, and swear under oath that you will not share any information you learn here about Neal Caffrey and his family?"

"You were in Witness Protection," Peter said, ignoring the Marshal. That was the only explanation that fit what he'd learned about Neal and the Marshals' interest in him.

"I –" Neal started.

"Answer the question, Agent Burke," the Marshal insisted.

"Yeah, give me the damn form." As he signed, Peter said, "This is why you didn't want your aversion to chicken soup going in your file, isn't it? You didn't want anyone to know you'd been hospitalized for food poisoning when you were six, because it could be used to track down where you lived and who your parents were."

Neal nodded.

The Marshal opened a file. "You left Witness Protection voluntarily at the age of eighteen, but did not contact the Marshal's office for assistance in the transition. Having contacted us now, you are entitled to support in establishing your identity. We will provide a birth certificate and the ten years' history of residence the FBI requires for employment. You are not requesting protection for yourself. However, you have an obligation to maintain secrecy around those who remain in the program. I need you to sign that you understand this obligation and agree to these terms."

The Marshal slid a form across the table to Neal, who signed.

"Assuming your fingerprints match the ones we filed when you entered the program, everything should be in order. I do want to ask you a few questions to help verify your identity while we wait for those results. Can you tell me who your parents were, and when and why your family entered Witness Protection?"

"My mother was Meredith Caffrey. She was a chef for a catering company –"

"Wait. A professional chef gave you food poisoning?" Peter had to ask.

"Yes. She was very embarrassed. And probably buzzed." Then Neal turned back to the Marshal and resumed his emotionless recital of facts. "She married James Bennett, a D.C. Metro cop. My birth name was Neal George Bennett, and I was their only child. When I was three years old he..." Neal paused a beat before continuing. "He confessed to murder. His partner from the force, my mother and I went into WITSEC, and were moved to St. Louis."

"Who did he kill?" Peter asked.

"I don't know. I didn't even realize we were in WITSEC until I turned eighteen. Mom always told me Dad died a hero in a shootout with a gang of bad guys. On my eighteenth birthday Ellen – my dad's partner – told me the truth. Or she started to. When it got to be too much, I left to clear my head, drove too fast on a rain-slick road and ended up in a lake. I woke up in an ambulance, with EMTs telling me I'd drowned and been resuscitated. I took it as a sign that I needed to get away and start a new life. I ran away and never came back to St. Louis until this week."

"Thank you, Neal," the Marshal said. "That coincides with our files. You've already touched on when you were hospitalized at the age of six. There was also an incident when you were nine. Tell me about that."

Neal stiffened. "Do I have to?"

"It's a significant event. If you can't confirm it, it throws your identity into question."

"I can tell you what Ellen told me when it was over. I just don't remember it happening."

"Tell me what you know."

"Mom had a boyfriend who liked to hit me. When Ellen realized what was going on, my mom broke up with him. We thought it was over, but one day he followed me home from school and seriously hurt me. I ended up in a hospital for a while. As I healed physically, I suppressed the memories. Sometimes, rarely, I get a flashback." He swallowed. "I think I saw a water fountain as we walked over here?"

"Yes. Feel free to take a break."

After Neal left, Peter said. "He had a flashback yesterday. He wouldn't tell me any details, but I'm obligated to follow up on suspected child abuse. Can you confirm the assailant was caught and imprisoned?"

"Yes," the Marshal said. "I was briefed on the case. He went to prison and died there." As Peter drew a breath for his next question, the Marshal shook his head. "That's all I can tell you. However, if you notice the flashbacks happening frequently, see if you can get him to talk to a therapist. I can't even imagine what that kind of experience does to a child."

"What about his dad? I assume he went to prison if he confessed to murder."

"Yes. He was released a couple of years ago, and was warned not to make any attempt at contacting his family. His wife had filed for divorce, so they were not reunited. If you hear of James Bennett looking for Neal, inform us immediately."

"Is Bennett dangerous?" Peter asked.

"To his son? Not directly. But we don't want him drawing the attention of the people he's supposed to be hiding from."

"And who would that be?"

"A combination of other dirty cops and the Irish mob. It was ugly. I'm sure you can look up the old news reports for much of the story. If Neal has questions about what happened to his dad, send him to us. I'd avoid using FBI resources to do research on James Bennett. Some of those dirty cops likely moved into positions of greater power over the years and could be watching for searches on James. You don't want to draw their attention to Neal."

Neal returned a few minutes later. He stood in the doorway. "Are we done here?"

The Marshal pulled a photo out of the file folder. The photo showed a dark-haired boy of about six asleep in a hospital bed. A blonde woman rested her head on the bedside, her right arm reaching over the child, holding on to him. One of the child's hands rested on her arm. "My predecessor took the picture. He said this was when he realized Ellen was functioning as your mother at least as much as your biological mother was. I can't give you any family photos, but since you don't see her face in this one, I thought it would be safe to give you." He stood and handed the photo over to Neal. "Our New York office will deliver your documents to the FBI on Monday. Good luck."

Neal walked back to the rental car at a rapid pace, his eyes cast downward. A step away from the car, he looked up and took a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about any of that, ever again."

Peter doubted someone with Neal's inquisitive mind could refrain from asking more questions about his family in the long term, but he let it go for now. "You've evaded the Marshals for six years?"

"I thought of it more as avoided than evaded."

"And I'll bet you'd have avoided this meeting indefinitely, if it hadn't been for the FBI's offer."

"Probably."

"Why not forge a birth certificate? I've seen your work. It must have crossed your mind."

"You've seen my work. You might have been looking for a fake and caught it. That would kill our deal before it even started."

"You seriously want this opportunity." When Neal didn't respond, Peter continued, "I told you it won't be easy adjusting to things at the Bureau. But I respect the hell out of the effort you're making to meet our demands. I promise you, I'll do whatever I can to make this work." He unlocked the car door. "Any more errands?"

"No."

"Good. Then let's get some food. I assume you can recommend a restaurant around here."

Neal looked out to the street and blinked, as if surprised to see the Friday rush hour traffic. Everyone was heading home or out to dinner. "You like Italian, right?"

"How did you know? No. Never mind. I don't think I want to hear the answer." Peter followed Neal's directions to a nearby restaurant. Neal shed the somber attitude he'd shown since picking up Peter at the airport and was more chatty after their food arrived. But most of what he said was in Italian, and involved gushing over the food with the wait staff and then with the restaurant's owner.

By the time they returned to the hotel room, everything seemed back to normal. Peter had placed his suitcase on his bed and was putting away his clothes when Neal said, "Have you unpacked your laptop yet? I want to do some research. I may have found a case for us."

Peter turned around, still holding a suit jacket he'd been about to hang up. "Excuse me?"

"I met someone this afternoon who needs our help."

"Neal, we're not a couple of private investigators for hire. The FBI is a government agency. You don't pick your cases. We tell you what cases to work."

"Seriously? If someone asks you for help, you just tell him no."

"No. Of course not. We send them to the appropriate branch of the Bureau or other law enforcement agency. Whoever you met today should probably start with the local cops. The New York White Collar division doesn't take cases in St. Louis."

"Right. That's why they flew you out here for a case."

"A case that originated in New York."

"So if I could find a tie to New York, you'd look at this case?"

Peter had a feeling he should say no. But he hated to discourage Neal the first time he showed interest in solving a crime rather than committing one. And his own curiosity was in overdrive. What kind of a case would pique Neal's interest? "I'll make you a deal."

Neal flashed a grin that already had Peter worried.

"You have until midnight to make a connection to a white collar crime in New York. You can use my laptop, but you will not access any FBI systems or files."

"But –"

"Anything you need from those resources, I will look up. At midnight, you stop. Then you think through everything you've found, and decide how you would present the case to the FBI. Over breakfast I'll give you ten minutes to convince me it's a legitimate case that falls in our jurisdiction."

"I'll only need five."

Peter laughed as he finally hung up his suit jacket. "Don't count on it. I'll have at least five minutes' worth of questions."

Neal pulled out the laptop and powered it up. "What's your password?"

"Nice try."