THE PRE-STING
Peter was annoyed at the direction of the conversation, shaking his head in righteous dissent before Neal could further elaborate his plan.
"No...There must be some other way to lure Hauser back to New York that doesn't include exploiting his dead son."
"By all means," Neal spoke without hiding his annoyance, "let's not be too cruel to the man who handcuffed me to a bed for a week and shot me up with heroin."
"Neal," said Peter, hoping to mollify his former C.I., "I hear you, but let's look at everything else first. Let's go back to the day you were kidnapped. What else do you remember? Don't leave anything out, even if it seems insignificant."
Peter paced somberly with arms crossed as he listened to Neal recount his story. Mozzie, Jones and Diana sat at the table, taking notes, attentively noting and absorbing every word, silence, gesture and tick from Neal.
"Beyond what I've already told you, there isn't much else."
"You can't tell us where the penthouse is, but you remember the view," said Peter, somewhat frustrated.
"There was a skylight. The rest is a blur."
"What about sounds?"asked Diana. "Horns, bells, alarms, anything that might have given you some clue about the location."
"Sorry, Diana. Nothing."
Peter returned to the table to sit before Neal. "Okay, then...let's talk about when you woke up on the street."
"It was an alley."
"Fine, alley...what do you remember?"
"Pain. My head was bleeding. I had no shoes, no cell phone. And I was pretty sick."
"How did you get there?" asked Jones.
"Aldo threw me in the back of a vehicle..."
"What do you remember about the vehicle?" asked Peter.
"Nothing. I don't remember the make. But that's not what's important..."
"It might be," said Diana.
"Trust me, Hauser probably had Aldo destroy it. Besides, it's not what I saw – it's what I heard. Granted, some of it may be slightly unreliable. I was somewhat incapacitated at the time...."
"Go on," said Peter.
"Okay...Hauser rode with us. I was in the back; Aldo was driving. They were talking, planning their next move. I fought to keep conscious, to keep up with the conversation. I missed a lot, but I remember a few things...
"...He said something about an airstrip, the one near the Hudson. I remember because it was the same one where Kate... Anyway, he said something about transferring money, no doubt to Aldo, his payment for the job, and that that would be the end of their arrangement."
Diana looked confused. "How does this help us?"
"There's more," Neal said. "Torch the penthouse. I remember Hauser telling Aldo to torch the penthouse and make sure there was nothing left."
Now Diana looked a bit more hopeful. "We can check records with local police and FDNY to find the penthouse. Any mysterious fires around the time Neal was missing. We can track it back to Hauser."
"Perhaps," said Mozzie, "but if Hauser is as smart as he's been in the past, there won't be anything to track back to him."
Jones rapped the table with a knuckle. "We find the place, we check with the fire investigator, find out what kind of accelerant was used and we can track it back to Hauser's goon, Aldo."
"That's a good start, Jones" said Peter. "But we want Hauser."
"Exactly," Neal said. "You want Hauser? Forget about the penthouse. We find his wife."
"Wife? What wife? Hauser has a wife?"
Peter looked confused – had they so easily overlooked the obvious? He reached for the Hauser file and opened it quickly to flip through the pages.
"There's no mention of a wife here," Peter said. "How could we have missed that? Are you certain?"
"As certain as I can be," offered Neal.
Peter held up a severely redacted page – every possible line was obscured by a thick black line, even the signature of the agent who had submitted the report.
"Jones," Peter began.
"I'll see what I can find out," Jones assured, taking the page.
"Sentimentality can be a dangerous thing," Neal said. Everyone looked at him for an explanation. "That's what Hauser said. He'd planned to visit her before leaving town, but something altered his plans. I got the impression he really wanted to see her though, but I'm willing to bet it wouldn't have been a happy visit."
"You get a name?" Peter asked.
"No. Aldo only referred to her as 'wife'."
"Okay," said Peter, quite excited, "We've got something. Let's comb through every piece of information we have on Hauser and figure out where the wife fell through the cracks. Let's get a name and track her down."
Jones and Diana stood, preparing to return to headquarters. Mozzie remained at the table flipping through the Hauser file.
Neal stood. He was anxious, mind stimulated by the thought of the chase, the promise of adventure. Peter stood before him, slipping on his suit jacket.
"Neal...what are you grinning at?"
"Kind of feels like old times," he said.
"It does. You look better."
"I feel better."
"You've got your thing today...?"
"Therapy session, yeah. I can change it to another day if you need me."
"No. You do your thing with the therapist. We'll clear out before she arrives...give you two some privacy."
There was more lingering between them, something else Peter needed to say.
"What?" Neal asked.
"It's good to have you back."
"Yeah," Neal said, smiling. "Feels good to be back."
~WC~
THE SESSION
"You must be Neal."
Her hand was warm and soft, he noticed. Her nails were cut uniformly short and unpolished. An engagement ring adorned her left hand.
"And you must be 'the' Dr. Leslie," Neal said with one of his stock, winning smiles.
"Leslie Coine," she said, "but please call me Leslie. I take it you've heard my radio show?"
"I confess that I'm not much of a radio listener. But I did listen yesterday."
"And?"
"And it was...entertaining."
"The medium demands it, I'm afraid," she said, not so much as apology, as merely a statement of fact. "I promise that our session today will be far less theatrical."
She took a look around at Thursday, and was clearly impressed by it. "You live here?"
"For the time being, yes."
"Alone?"
"There are others – friends – who are, for lack of a better word, watching me while I recover. They've stepped out to allow us a bit of privacy."
"Good," she said. "Then let's get to it."
He took her wrap, a wide, soft scarf with an African motif, perfumed and colorful. He would never have pegged her as the nationally-known celebrity shrink, based on print articles and word-of-mouth he'd noted on occasion.
"I know," she said, as if she could read Neal's mind. "I'm not what you expected. Let me guess: Older, Caucasian, two piece red tweed suit with comfy-cushioned black pumps, a matching bag and one too many shots of Botox."
"You get that a lot, I'm assuming."
She nodded and ran a dark, delicate hand over the myriad soft, tiny dreadlocks adorning her head. Thin silver and copper bracelets tinkled gently as she moved.
They sat on the facing leather couches. Neal fought not to fidget while she prepared a legal pad and felt tipped pen to take notes.
"So...?" she began.
"So..." Neal repeated.
"Shamus told me much of what you've been through. I have to say it's quite an unusual circumstance. How are you feeling?"
"If I had dollar for every time I've heard that question lately..."
"How about just answering it?"
Neal took a deep breath. Talk therapy was not his preferred manner of spending such a glorious afternoon. Revealing his personal thoughts, uncovering feelings and bearing emotions was akin to mental torture. Not to mention the fact that, in his former chosen professional, the less people knew about you, the better. But he understood that this was a sacrifice he must endure if he ever expected to return to life as he once knew. He avoided Leslie's probing hazel eyes, letting his own eyes casually examine the room, hoping to convey the impression of a relaxed attitude. He wanted her to think – to know – that Neal Caffrey had everything under control.
"How am I? I'm a little tired. A little distracted."
"Emotionally."
His point of concentration became the ultra high heeled ankle boots she wore, and what they might suggest about her. To say that she was a beautiful woman was an understatement. To mention it under such circumstances would be in poor taste. But to entertain a few fleeting thoughts about her physical attributes was easier than wondering how she might be thinking about him, diagnosing him. In earnest, Neal was feeling uncharacteristically exposed.
"Let's keep it simple," she said. "Let's start with anger."
Neal felt heat rising in his cheeks. Yes, there was anger. Such anger. At Hauser. At himself. But he had successfully kept it under control until such time as he could unleash all that he was suppressing. Wasn't that the proper way to deal with it? It worked with Fowler, it worked with Adler. Somewhat.
"Yes," he said softly. "I'm angry."
"Sad?"
He nodded. "A little, maybe. Yeah."
"Fearful?"
Fear had kept him enslaved to the monster. Fear was the entity that had driven him away from the people he held dear. He nodded again, shuddered and rubbed his arm as he abruptly recalled with great and frightening detail Aldo holding him, tying his own silk tie around his arm to raise the vein, and that first pin prick of Hauser's needle invading his arm. He felt a dizzying rush to his head.
"Yeah," he said, hoping to shield from her the anxiousness he felt, that triggered a quickening of his heart. Could she hear it pounding as loudly as he did?
"Shame? Embarrassment?"
"Yes," he said, remembering the hell that was withdrawal, the torment of being so vulnerable and ultra-exposed before his friends.
"Happy?"
"What?"
That threw him. Happy? In this nightmare? His first instinct was to vehemently deny it. There was no happiness to be had. Happiness was a foreign concept, something once treasured but now lost. But as he considered it more, his thoughts began to shift away from all the insufferable experiences of the past few months. He realized that there was such gratitude for his friends, as well as for being sober and lucid and back on track. He was genuinely happy for Thursday, for long time friends like Mozzie, and for Peter Burke, who believed in him enough to risk jeopardizing his career with the bureau to save him. Even more, he was looking forward to the future again, to the excitement of the chase. Neal caught himself smiling.
"I guess," Neal replied. "Yes. I'm happy to be alive. Happy to be sober and in my right mind again."
"Good. I want to help you stay that way. Let's talk about a recovery plan, what you plan to do to stay sober..."
"I appreciate that, really. But I already know I'm never going to use again. I'm not the drug using type, never was. Beyond a glass or two of wine – fine wine – I was never much for mind altering substances. My line of work requires sound thinking, sober judgment. Believe me when I say, with all honestly and clarity, that I never intend to use again."
He waited for her response. He expected her to believe him, to congratulate him, admire him, and agree with him. He wanted her to stand up and shake his hand, pronounce her work as done and leave. When she did none of those things, he sat back and stared defiantly into her bright eyes. How dare this...radio shrink...doubt his sincerity?
"I know myself," he adamantly continued. "I know what I'm capable of. I know that I will never pick up a needle again."
"You might," she said, quite matter-of-factly.
"No, I won't."
"You might," she insisted.
"You don't know me," Neal said, more forcefully than he intended.
Leslie smiled, subtly. It reminded him of the Mona Lisa. To him the subject of that much beloved painting seemed to be defiantly withholding something, and the price for disclosure was steep and non-negotiable. Neal returned the smile, as he held obstinately to his certainty of self.
What she did next infuriated him.
She wrote a note. She took her time writing it. Neal watched her, exasperation evident on his face.
"Go on," she said, riling him further.
"No," he said, standing his ground firmly. "You seem to think you know all about me. Why don't you enlighten me?"
"Are you sure you want to hear it?" Leslie asked calmly. That hint of a smile was still playing at her lips.
Neal crossed his arms and sat back, suggesting that she do the talking for a change.
After a beat, she said, "I'm not here to judge you, Neal. I'm not here to condemn you. I just want to help you get comfortable with living without ever using again. You think you're already there. I hope you are. But I'm willing to bet you're not...and I'll tell you why...
"The map of your brain has been seriously affected by opiate abuse. Your first time using may not have been voluntary, but every time after that...it was all you. That's the part we need to deal with – the compulsion that lead you to continue once you were out of harm's way. Your ability to choose was compromised, and the resulting damage may mean you will almost certainly always crave. Be honest with me, Neal. Have you been craving?"
"I can control it."
"That works for today. But what happens tomorrow? What happens when life's pressures overwhelm you?"
"Do you still crave?"
"I do. Once in a while. I have someone to call, a sponsor, when things get bad for me."
"Can't I just do that? Call someone?"
"You'll have to work your way up to that, Neal. More counseling. Group sessions. Steering clear of situation that may trigger you to use again..."
Neal remained quiet, arms stiffly crossed as he considered her words.
"I felt...something. The other day, I was taking a walk with Peter. He brought up Hauser. I swear it's true, when I say I never want to use again, but something was...triggered. I found myself looking for Blondie."
"Your connection?"
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"I'm an addict. Been there."
"It was just for a second. I wasn't actively seeking him out, but he crossed my mind. I swear I had no intention of doing anything. But I wonder, if Peter wasn't there..."
"We are liars, we users," said Leslie. "We lie to everyone. But mostly, we lie – quite convincingly – to ourselves. We want so badly to believe we are in control. But the proof is in our actions. Right now, Neal, you're thinking you know what you need better than anyone else. You've struck down the beast, conquered it, and you're back from the dead. After all that, why would anyone dare doubt your intentions?
"I'll tell you why," she continued. "You're an addict. What you don't want to do, you will do. What you want to do, you won't. You can foist all blame and responsibility for your addiction on the man who violated you, but you cannot escape the truth: You are an addict, and without treatment, relapsing is highly probable. How does that hit you?"
Neal took a deep breath and wrung his chilled hands together. "I'm overwhelmed," he whispered.
"Now that's honest, Neal," she said. "I can work with that."
~WC~
IN THE EVENING
Peter tossed his suit jacket onto the arm of the sofa and sat a cushion away from Neal. Tonight, he would be the only one to sit with Caffrey. Jones and Diana would be working late, using Bureau resources to continue tracking down the mysterious Mrs. Hauser. Mozzie, secretive as ever, left promising to return before midnight, intent on picking the brains of a few street contacts to assist in finding the absent wife. Elizabeth and Sara were having dinner at June's – a sort of ladies' night out, a welcomed break from all the drama and intrigue, and a chance to bond.
"How'd it go?" asked Peter.
"With Leslie? Good," said Neal, rubbing his tiring eyes.
"Oh, Leslie is it? You look discouraged."
"Yeah, maybe. A little."
"Didn't hit it off with her?"
"She's fine. She's great."
"Wanna talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
Neal gnawed absently on a knuckle. "She thinks I'll relapse."
Peter loosened his tie and waited patiently for more information. "You might," he said, then rose to check on the availability of coffee.
"Did you two compare notes or something?"
Peter poured two mugs of coffee and brought one to Neal.
"Glad to know how much faith everyone has in me."
Peter sat back, propping his feet up on a supple leather ottoman.
"Well...you can sit there and mope or...you can ask me what I found out about Hauser's wife."
It was as if in an instant, life and vitality returned to Neal's countenance. Peter one-handedly dug a photo from his discarded jacket pocket and passed it to Neal.
"According to a very reliable source, this is Kristin Chandler, currently age 44. Married to Linus Hauser in 1995, had a son together in '96, divorced in '99. Hauser was arrested prior to the divorce on domestic abuse charges, but the charges were dropped. Remarried Hauser in 2003, divorced him a second time in 2005. Hauser was arrested two more times, same charges, but she dropped the charges, both times."
"Talk about a history of violence. So, where is she now?"
"That was the tricky part. It appeared she'd covered her tracks well. She dropped off the radar around 2009."
"Right around the time of our sting. You arrested Hauser...Hauser escapes..."
"And she went missing."
"You think she skipped the country?" Neal asked.
"That was my first thought. Until we received that photo."
"So what's the deal?"
Peter took a sip of coffee. "WITSEC."
"Witness Protection? Peter, if she's in the program..."
"We can't touch her, I know," Peter said, casually brushing a piece of lint from the knee of his trousers.
"You seem uncharacteristically nonchalant about it."
"There's a reason...this picture," Peter said, "was taken at an A.T.M. here in Manhattan."
"So..." Neal regarded the photo, carefully studying the grainy black and white digital image. She was pretty, dark haired, but dressed in such a way as to discourage attention.
"How long ago was this taken?"
"This morning."
"What?"
"Yup. Jones has a good friend with the U.S. Marshals. Owed him a huge favor. The friend wouldn't have budged ordinarily, wouldn't have dared agreed to give out information on the former Mrs. Hauser, if she were still in the program. Apparently, she skipped out about six months ago, so the obligation to further protect her is officially null and void. But they still keep tabs on her – thus the A.T.M. surveillance photo – since the Hauser case is still open and of great interest to Homeland Security. They were able to pick up on her using simple facial recognition software, which means she's vulnerable. Anyone who wants to find her, could find her. We were hoping she was still using her WITSEC alias to keep Hauser off her trail, but apparently she's not. She must've given herself a new one."
"If Hauser wanted to see her, he's already figured it out whatever alias she's using. Peter, we need to find her."
"That's the idea. Jones and Diana are working on nailing a location. Soon as they get something...Neal? Neal, what's wrong?"
Neal's face had lost all color. He was staring wide-eyed, unblinkingly at the photocopy, as if he had discovered some dark and terrible apparition lurking in the image. Fear transformed into a quickly boiling rage that reddened his eyes, tightened his lips, and for a moment, stole his voice.
"Neal, talk to me."
Could it be...could such a thing be true?
"Peter...look at the photo..."
"Neal...?"
"Who is this?" Neal pointed with a trembling finger at the fuzzy image of a young man standing closely behind the former Mrs. Hauser.
"Don't know...someone in line to use the A.T.M. What about him?"
"How old does he look?"
"What?"
"HOW OLD DOES HE LOOK TO BE?"
"I don't know...fifteen maybe? Sixteen? I don't underst...oh my God..."
"Peter...I think...I think this is Daniel. If this was taken today, Daniel's alive. Would the Marshals fabricate his death to protect him from Hauser?"
"That's not what they do. Make you disappear, yes. Fake your death, not their method."
"Peter, if this is Hauser's son, and he's still alive, then...all this...everything Hauser did to me..."
"He did it to you for nothing."
End chapter 11.