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     Neal Caffrey headed home from the FBI office a bit early. His handler, Peter Burke, was out and about investigating real crimes. Neal was relegated to being metaphorically chained to his desk. It seemed that all he was used for these days was poring over dull, boring cold case files related to mortgage fraud, pyramid schemes and sweepstakes swindles.

      Neal got it. Peter was still engaged in his Faustian battle regarding his own ethics and integrity. But Peter’s antipathy was really getting old. Neal had only acted with the best of intentions to save his partner’s career, and now Neal was reaping the rewards for his efforts. Peter barely even spoke to him, and his attitude bled over into the mindset of the entire White Collar staff so that Neal felt like a virtual pariah.

      So, he left before his eight-hour day was over in a bit of defiance. If Peter wanted to know where he was, he could damn well check the data from his tracking anklet. If Peter got pissed about the abbreviated work day, he would probably resort to giving Neal a “time out” akin to house arrest, and right now having to stay in his loft sounded a lot more pleasant than the White Collar office.

      As he arrived home and stood just inside the vestibule of the mansion, Neal was stopped by one of the maids. She told him that a delivery had come for him during the afternoon, and then indicated a rather large box sitting beside the front door. Neal was intrigued. He certainly hadn’t ordered anything. He hefted the almost square box, which really wasn’t heavy, and headed up to his loft. Mozzie awaited him, wine glass in hand.

     “What have you got there, mon frere?” the little, myopic man asked inquisitively.

      “Hey, Moz. Make yourself at home, why don’t you. As for what this is, I’m not sure. Somebody sent me a package but there is no return address,” Neal answered. Even though Mozzie could grate on his nerves from time to time when he took it upon himself to camp out in Neal’s space, he still remained Neal’s steadfast friend and advocate, and Neal vowed never to take that for granted.

      “You’re certainly not going to just open it, are you?” Mozzie was scandalized. “It could contain a ticking bomb or anthrax or any of a myriad of nefarious agents!”

      “I don’t hear any ticking and I think a box that measures almost twenty inches is overkill for anthrax spores,” Neal answered sarcastically.

      “Well, at least let me take it back to my safe house and run some tests to figure out what’s inside before you possibly self-destruct yourself.” Mozzie’s paranoia was probably warranted the way Neal’s life had been going thus far. However, uncharacteristically, the young man found that in his present mindset, he really didn’t care.

      Mozzie cautiously removed himself out onto the open terrace while Neal fiddled with a box cutter to slit open the carton. What he found inside was puzzling and less than pleasing to the eye. Mozzie’s curiosity overcame his fear and he poked his head through the glass doors to watch Neal remove a painting and then study it with intense scrutiny. The painting looked to be early Renaissance in style and depicted a rather disturbing scene of several naked people arriving through a stone portal being met or accosted by evil-looking, emaciated depictions of demons.

      Mozzie was intrigued. “Do you know what this is, Neal?”

      “Basically, I do” the conman answered, “but I’m betting my last set of lock picks that you know a lot more.”

      Mozzie had the gift of perfect recall. Once he saw something, it was forever indelibly etched in his brain. He could access facts with the ease of a super computer and it still amazed Neal even after all these years.

      “This is a representation of a Renaissance work by Giotto di Bondrone called “Descent Into Limbo,” Rain Man began his lecture. “Besides being a medieval artist, Giotto was also the architect for the Florence Cathedral, and the bell tower is known as Giotto’s Campanile. Almost all of his paintings are biblical in nature, as is this one describing a place where souls are imprisoned because they have not been baptized.”

      After a pause, “It’s not the real deal, is it?” asked Mozzie.

      Neal studied the painting very closely before remarking, “No, it’s rather recently done. I can still smell the linseed oil, and there’s no sign that whoever did this even took the time to try and age it. Add to that, no signature on the work, and the almost paint-by-numbers feeling, I’d say the artist is a hack.”

      Mozzie came closer and furrowed his brow. “Okay, so the artist isn’t trying to convince you that this is a valuable Renaissance masterpiece. Then why send it to you? It must have some deeper meaning for you or the person who painted it.”

      “I’m at a loss here, Mozz. Haven’t a clue. Nothing is speaking to me right now.” Neal was as perplexed as his friend.

      “Alright, let’s theorize, shall we,” Mozzie began. “There could be many layers to this onion. Allegorically, Limbo is a neutral state where one cannot move forward. People locked in Limbo are virtuous but they lack commitment, and their status is a timeless plain of existence awaiting Judgment Day. A person in Limbo is held up and can do nothing until another action happens. That sort of typifies your status, Neal, while shackled to “The Man.”

      A wry grimace was all the reaction that he got from Neal.

      Undeterred, Mozzie continued. “Esoterically, Limbo is also the first of the Nine Circles of Hell depicted in Dante’s Inferno in the epic poem ‘Divine Comedy.’ In the work, Dante was led by the poet Virgil through a portal such as is seen in the painting. Embronzed upon that portal he was able to read that time honored inscription ‘Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,’ or ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’” Mozzie’s eyebrows were raised into two question marks.

      “I’m still at a loss, ‘Mr. Walking Wikipedia,’ as to how and why this was sent to me. We might be reading more into it than what the sender intended. Maybe they just wanted to drive me crazy wondering,” Neal finally concluded. With that being said, he placed the ugly painting on the floor and poured himself a glass of wine. It wasn’t long before his phone indicated that a text had come in, and Neal knew without looking that it was a righteous Peter ready to pontificate on Neal’s shortcomings.

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     Best selling mystery writer and part-time ersatz detective Richard Castle had the woman of his dreams locked in a sleepy embrace. He was a contented, happy man until Kate Beckett’s cell phoned shrilled on the nightstand in the early morning hours. The real fulltime NYPD detective groped blearily for her phone and answered in a husky, just awakened tone.

     “What’s up, Lanie?” she asked, referring to the 12^th precinct’s resident forensic physician and personal friend.

      Kate listened for a few minutes, then ended the call with a promise to come into the medical examiner’s office. She smiled wryly at Rick and told him that the DOA from yesterday that was thought to be from natural causes was now determined to be a homicide after the autopsy.

      The team of detective and mystery writer shared a quick shower and coffee before beginning their work day. Castle adored Kate Beckett. After two failed marriages, one would think that he was now jaded regarding “happily ever after.” And maybe he had been until he finally won the heart of the lovely NYPD detective who used exemplary expertise in her job to hide someone who needed another someone to love her. Although Richard Castle still penned his successful series of murder mystery novels, his greatest thrill now was being at Kate’s side trying to unravel the mystery of real life whodunits.

      They met with Dr. Lanie Parish about an hour later in the morgue. She had the remains of one Amos Rawlings on her table. The 52-year-old deceased male was thought to have succumbed to a heart attack in his midtown apartment, but toxicology reports indicated that he had a lethal amount of a sex-enhancing drug in his blood that no doubt precipitated the cardiac arrest.

      “Do you think that he intentionally took extra help for his libido?” asked Castle.

      “Maybe two pills, but not almost five times the recommended dosage,” said Lanie. “With all the caveats that come with this medication, he would have known that he was risking his life. It wasn’t as if he was some young stud who thought he was immortal. He was a man whose ticker was precarious with arthrosclerosis, and he had a stent in place from a previous cardiac catherization to prove it. So, he definitely knew that he would be playing with fire.”

      “Okay, let me look into this and I’ll get back to you,” said Beckett.

      What an investigation revealed was that Rawlings was the wealthy owner of an exclusive midtown club called “Bacchanalia.” It was very chic and extremely restricted, catering to the rich, the famous, and, apparently, the depraved. Members paid a very high initiation fee to join like-minded individuals whose sexual drives and predilections spanned the gamut from sensual to sick. All perversions were welcomed, and since the members were all consenting adults, what went on behind closed doors stayed beyond the reach of the vice squad. Fellow detectives Esposito and Ryan informed Beckett that Rawlings was divorced but on good terms with his ex-wife since he provided handsomely for her life style in the form of alimony payments. Beckett and Castle first met with her as they started their investigation.

      Claire Rawlings was on the far side of forty but the miracles of cosmetic surgery had provided an unnatural tautness to her features. She apparently lacked a motive for murder, since with her ex-husband’s death, her gravy train of monetary support would dry up. She did not stand to gain from his business venture since “Bacchanalia” was an enterprise that her late ex-husband had begun after their divorce. She also told Kate and Richard that Rawlings' heart condition was well documented and he would not have been foolish enough to risk his life. His wife stated emphatically that her ex-husband merely provided the venue in his club but did not partake of the fruits of his labors.

      Castle and Beckett next visited the cave of Sodom and Gomorrah to see what had now become a crime scene. Each room was more garish than the next, and some of the props raised Castle’s eyebrows, and some were just too arcane for an explanation. Kate threatened castration if Castle even thought about appropriating anything. Castle just favored her with his sad puppy impersonation. He then busied himself going from room to room taking in the sights.

      Behind each door was a sumptuous display of affluent décor punctuated with sensual nuances in the form of erotic paintings, posters and statues. No doubt the trappings were such to get the participants in the proper frame of mind. Most were garish and left little to the imagination. Castle stared at one piece of art for a bit longer than the others because the painting appeared incongruous to the motif of scantily clad porn stars that dominated the room, and it seemed too small for the space in which it was hung. “Pan & Syrinx” was the title on the ornate frame, but there was no artist signature found anywhere on the painting. The scene depicted the debauchery by Pan, the satyr-like god of the nymphs, of several bodacious naked maidens.

      The inconsistency of the painting niggled at Castle. Gingerly, he began looking under the bed and behind the furniture, unsure what he might unearth. Behind an armoire, he found a poster of a lewd starlet with lips pursed, looking naughty and luscious. It was obvious that this had been the wall hanging before it had been swapped out for the mythological one. Castle had nowhere to go with this train of thought, so he relegated it to the back of his mind for the time being.

      Beckett, meanwhile, was spieling off orders in her rapid staccato fashion to Esposito and Ryan. “Look into the finances. See who stands to gain from that. Get a membership list and see if anyone has a grudge or is disgruntled with their membership. Look in the victim’s apartment for a prescription for the sex-enhancing medication. See if there was a girlfriend in the picture and if she or anyone was with the victim around the time of his death.” The list went on and on. It was all part of the process but it was the nature of thorough detective work. Little did she know that it was only the beginning of a marathon.

Chapter Text

     Neal was having his morning coffee on the terrace with June while skimming the morning newspaper. He read the lurid headlines about “Beelzebub’s Boutique,” as the newspaper referred to the sex club. No details were spared as to the kind of paraphernalia that police were cataloging in the brownstone, but so far, no member names had been leaked to the press.

      Neal just shook his head. He was no prude, but, truth be told, he was kind of vanilla between the sheets and none of his partners seemed to find that a deterrent. He was certainly not judgmental…to each his own, as long as everyone was on board with the plans. Draining his cup of Italian roast, he bid June a goodbye and made his way uptown to the FBI. Peter was still being a pompous ass in Neal’s opinion, but Neal was not going to apologize anymore or grovel. It was what it was, and he could tolerate mortgage fraud and let his brain turn to mush for the next year and a half just to spite his handler.

      Not very far away in the 12^th precinct, the NYPD homicide team was also frustrated because they were no closer to a suspect in the Rawlings murder than they were yesterday. With every passing hour, the trail was growing colder and much less likely to be solved. There were no prescriptions for Viagra or Cialis in any pharmacological database under Rawlings’ name, but there was a half-full bottle of nitrates for treating chest pain in his bedside chest of drawers. His personal physician went on record as stating that he and his patient had a discussion about the contraindications of the two medicines, and the patient was well aware that he would be risking his life if he took them. They could find no evidence of a recent paramour who might be a temptation to disobey doctor’s orders.

      Esposito and Ryan could turn up no one with a grudge against the man. All the patrons that they had interviewed were more worried about exposure of their membership in the sex club than in the man’s death. Most had barely met him other than to have an initial dialogue in which they supplied personal references from those who were already members so that they could be vetted. Money was paid by mail in the form of money orders or cashier’s checks.

      The current investigation was put on the back burner when another homicide occurred one week later. Phillip Lateure, a noteworthy gourmand on the Food Network, was found dead in his apartment. The cause of death was determined to be ingestion of tetrodotoxin, a highly lethal poison found in the skin and internal organs of the puffer fish. When eaten, the toxin deadens the tongue and lips and induces dizziness and vomiting, followed by numbness and prickling over the body, rapid heart rate, decreased blood pressure and muscle paralysis. When the diaphragm muscles become paralyzed, the person ceases to breathe, and without emergency intervention, death ensues.

     Again Castle and Beckett met with the medical examiner across the very large corpse of the food critic who looked like a pale beached whale.

     “My God, what did this fellow weigh?” Castle was dumbfounded by the sheer size of the human remains.

     “Oh, big boy here tipped the scales at 475 pounds,” Lanie responded with a grimace. It took me quite a while to dissect through layers of adipose tissue before I could even access his vital organs. He definitely succumbed to puffer fish poison, but none of the fish was in his stomach, not to say that there weren’t plenty of other things in there. Right before he died, he’d eaten quail, venison, filet mignon, potatoes, haricot vert, key lime pie and custard flan, several vintages of red wine and a very expensive port.”

     “That’s making me queasy just hearing about that smorgasbord,” replied Beckett with a scowl.

     “If you think you’re queasy now, you should have been at the crime scene,” replied Lanie with a sigh. “You do remember that I told you that vomiting was one of the symptoms.”

     Castle looked a bit stressed and green around the gills when Beckett said that it would be their next stop. And it was as unpleasant as he had imagined it to be, as he tried to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose. But all of his olfactory distress was forgotten in an “AHA” moment when he spied the painting propped up on the bedroom dresser. This time the “evidence” or “clue” was more overt. No more hiding in plain sight. It was in your face, up close and personal.

     Castle directed Beckett’s attention to the muted image of three robust men imbibing at a dining table that had the look of old artwork. She, too, was connecting the dots to the first painting that was now stored in the evidence locker at the precinct. Her team would later identify this as a reproduction of a 17^th century piece of art done by Jacques de l’ Ange. To no one’s surprise, the title bestowed by the artist was simply “Gluttony.” The killer was leaving them a message, but what that strange message was still remained a mystery.

Chapter Text

     Neal was sitting at his desk at the FBI like a good little boy under Peter’s gaze from his perch on high. Neal was diligently staring at his computer, supposedly researching mortgage fraud. He was, however, reading the latest news on the New York Times home page. Today’s headlines centered on the murder of an investment banker who had been under indictment for months regarding his part in the shady loan scandals that precipitated the market crash a few years ago. He was detained under house arrest pending his numerous appeals. While whiling away his time in his condo, he succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning due to a faulty vent in his gas burning fireplace. Police had come to the conclusion that it was not a suicide, but the result of an unsub who had tampered with the device.

      Neal felt a cold shiver that Ellen used to say was the result of somebody walking over his grave. He quickly texted Mozzie and made arrangements to meet him for lunch. While the two sat at an outdoor café, Neal laid out his suspicions.

      “Mozzie, maybe I’ve become tuned into your paranoia after all these years that we’ve been together, but I think the weird murders these last few weeks are linked, and I think it all began when I got that painting of ‘Limbo.’ At first I just thought it was some past contemporary who wanted to yank my chain by rubbing it in that I was far from a free man. But, now I think it is more than that. I think it’s a puzzle that he’s daring me to unravel.”

      “Enlighten me, mon frère,” said Mozzie with rapt attention.

      “Well, you said that Limbo was the first ‘Circle of Hell’ enumerated in the ‘Divine Comedy.’ The next one was Lust. Do you remember the guy who owned that sex club? Remember how he was murdered with enough libido enhancing drugs to kill him?”

      Mozzie was now very interested. “Go on,” he encouraged.

      “A bit later, there was a second murder of an obese gourmand with tetrodotoxin…so Gluttony, the third circle of hell. And then, just yesterday, an unscrupulous investment banker bites the dust from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

      “Greed…yeah, I can see where you’re going with this, Neal.” Mozzie was intrigued. “Have the police made any mention of other paintings showing up?”

      “No, but they like to play things close to the vest and hold back facts to trip up their suspects.” Neal was thoughtful. “But there are still five more circles of hell that this lunatic can work through before the police even get an inkling. I really should point them in the right direction if this is what I think it is.”

      “Neal, do you really want to get involved? Don’t you have enough on your plate with Big Brother and your keeper who’s acting like a bear with a sore tail?” Mozzie was trying to be the voice of caution on his friend’s behalf.

      “I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think I have a way to share my theory through an intermediary. Remember Richard Castle, the author whose daughter I helped rescue in Paris years ago? Well, according to what I heard, he’s now working as a liaison to the NYPD. So, he has the ear of the powers that be in the investigation.”

      “Neal, I have a bad feeling about this. What if you’re right and this nutcase gets wind that you’re narcing. He could come after you.”

      “I appreciate your concern, Moz, I really do. But Castle owes me, so he should be able to handle this discreetly.”

      “Neal, sometimes you place too much faith in people, and you see where it’s gotten you thus far.” Mozzie was now the voice of doom and gloom.

      “I just don’t want to think of who’s going to be targeted next for “Wrath” and then “Heresy” after that, and then down three more circles to Judgment Day. What could he have in mind for the ultimate day of reckoning? Maybe trying to blow New York to smithereens? Moz, I feel like my painting is the gift that keeps on giving, you know. I’ve got to do something even if it doesn’t help in the long term. At least I’ll know that I tried,” Neal said earnestly.

      “Just be careful, Neal, that’s all I’m saying. And for God sake, stay in touch with me,” Mozzie was now truly worried about his friend.

      Neal made a call to Richard Castle’s home and left a message and a call back number. Now he just had to wait.

Chapter Text

     Castle was truly surprised to hear from Neal after all this time. When Richard returned the call, they made plans to meet for breakfast the following morning. Kate was too preoccupied to notice that he was even on the phone. She was meticulously sifting through crime scene photos, lists of interviews, alibis, phone logs and the like to be paying much attention to what he was doing. So Richard made sure to remedy that with talented hands that began kneading the tenseness from her shoulders and adjacent areas! She didn’t pay any more attention to her crime evidence for the rest of the night.

      The next morning Richard told Kate that he would see her later at the precinct because he was meeting with an old friend from his past. “Old friend” might have been stretching it. When Alexis, his teenage daughter, had been kidnapped and whisked away to Paris a few years ago, the State Department, the FBI, Interpol, and the French authorities had all been hamstrung by laws and protocols. Castle, in his anger and desperation, discovered that everyone has an alter ego, a Mr. Hyde, who comes to the forefront to protect those whom they love. He became that person, reaching out to every unsavory character, every source that he had ever cultivated when researching his crime novels featuring his hero, Derek Storm. One of his unsavory sources put him in contact with Neal Caffrey.

      All he was privy to at the time was that Caffrey was a very skilled expert who could gain entrance to any place at any time. Castle had offered to pay him a king’s ransom for aid in locating Alexis. With a minimum of actual communication between the two, Caffrey had managed to locate his daughter so that her rescue could take place. Castle didn’t know how he had managed it and he never asked. After Alexis was safe, Castle simply arrived at the pre-determined payoff site to deliver the promised amount for services rendered, but Neal never showed up. He sent a young boy with a message instead. It was a very simple message…just two words… “My pleasure.”

      Now, here they were, almost as they had been back in Paris, just two men sharing a meal in a restaurant.

      “So how is the fair Alexis these days?” asked Neal with a fond smile.

      “Well, much to my horror, she is maturing into a beautiful and smart young woman who merely pretends to be my little girl now. She’s going to college and is living with a young man by the name of Pi who only eats strange, organic foodstuffs.” Castle smiled ruefully.

      Neal gave Castle a wry, supportive smile and said, “That must be really hard on you, Dear Old Dad. This guy, Pi, is that like the number with all the digits behind it, or like the thing with apples that you put ice cream over?”

      “You know,” Castle frowned, “I’m not really sure.”

      After a pause, Castle became serious as he regarded Neal. “I realize that I owe you a debt that I can never truly repay. So, tell me what I can do to make a dent in my obligation.”

      Castle was not really surprised when he found that it wasn’t money Neal wanted. He had always suspected that Neal’s actions were never about money or gain. But he was intrigued by the tale that had begun with a painting.

     “Were there any other paintings found at the crime scenes?” Neal asked.

      Castle’s eyes grew large. He was never very good at maintaining a poker face, even when he played the game with his author friends. And Neal was really good at reading other people’s tells, so it definitely would not have been a good idea to play poker with him.

     “So there were more paintings!” Neal concluded.

     “I’m taking the fifth on that one. Beckett would kill me if she knew that I divulged evidence to an outsider.” Castle stated resolutely. “Look, come with me to the precinct after breakfast and we can talk to Kate. She’s the lead detective on these cases, and she just happens to be my fiancé,” Castle informed Neal.

     “Wow, you really do have an ‘in’ at the NYPD. Who knew the great Richard Castle was bold enough to give marriage another whirl. She must be one special lady!” Neal teased. “But I really want to have some distance from this.” The conman then told the author the saga of him and the FBI and his arrangement.

     “Right now my handler is not too happy with me for reasons I’d rather not get into. My future is iffy because there’s a Damocles sword hanging over my head, so I really don’t want to attract any attention from the authorities.”

     “Fair enough,” answered Castle. “I’ll make sure to get Kate into the loop, but she may have questions for you.”

      Neal looked resigned, but hoped that he could remain in the shadows. He didn’t need any more suspicion from Peter right now. He just wanted to keep his head down and try to remain invisible. Yeah…fat chance of that, he thought wryly.

Chapter Text

     Kate Beckett listened attentively as Richard told his improbable tale regarding Caffrey’s suspicions. She had been a detective too long to not think out of the box from time to time, and this was one of those times. She remembered the almost feral intensity that Castle had manifested when Alexis was missing. It was a side she was sure not many had witnessed from the usually mild-mannered author. So, she was really not surprised to learn that his various contacts in the underbelly of society were sometimes scary as well as lethal. Although Castle seemed to have faith in this particular contact, she did not. Sometimes what you saw was really what you got, even though your personal feelings wanted you to see something else. So the argument commenced between Kate and her fiancé.

      “Castle, this man is a criminal, one who could be capable of murder. He could be the one behind this whole thing and is bringing it to our attention for his own twisted reasons. Maybe he feels that he’s not getting enough attention. Maybe it’s to get back at the FBI for his initial arrest years ago, or it concerns his current problems with them. Maybe he’s just a sick son of a bitch who wants to show us how clever he is because obviously we weren’t getting it on our own.”

      “I don’t think so, Kate. He’s a felon, sure, but, I don’t know, he’s got his own agenda of ethics and I can’t imagine him killing anyone.”

      “When Alexis’ life was in danger, what happened to your code of ethics, Castle? And you have no idea how this man managed to find her. Murder could have been part of that scenario.”

      With that, she instructed Ryan and Esposito to bring Neal Caffrey in for a chat.

~~~~~~~~~~

      Neal had just slipped out to get lunch, an easy thing to do since Peter was out of the office tied up in ASAC meetings somewhere. Left to his own devices, he planned to make it a really long lunch. Neal’s grand plan went to hell as he was approached by two men in suits who looked grim and determined. When they showed their NYPD shields, Neal was not surprised but rather resigned. With a deep sigh, he knew that lunch was now a pipedream and he was in for the long haul with New York’s finest.

      Castle looked apologetic when Neal was escorted into the downtown precinct. Kate Beckett, however, was a different story. She looked like a woman on a mission as she zeroed in on Neal with a laser stare. He was taken to an interrogation room and left to stew for awhile, no doubt to make his stress level increase. Neal smiled to himself. He had, in the course of his colorful career, been interrogated by the best that every law enforcement agency had to offer. He could endure whatever was thrown at him and remain cool and unaffected. It usually drove the questioners bonkers. At least he was no longer bored; bring it on, he mused.

      Hours later, well beyond the scope of anyone’s normal work day, Beckett was well past frustrated. This man had all the right answers, and a tracking anklet that proved beyond a doubt that he could not have committed the last three murders. That didn’t mean he wasn’t the mastermind behind them, orchestrating a Machiavellian masterpiece of intrigue for his own hubris.

      Kate insisted that Caffrey turn over the painting that he said he had received, or the police, she threatened, would turn his apartment upside down until they found it. Neal calmly told her that she wouldn’t be able to do that without a search warrant, and, at present, there were insufficient grounds to obtain one. She had tried bluffing, but he was always one step ahead of her. Then, uncharacteristically, he offered to have his landlady bring it in, if that would make her happy. She agreed, and then returned to her desk to regroup.

      Peter Burke, meanwhile, had come back from his meetings and noted Neal’s empty desk in the middle of the afternoon. That got Peter’s ire stirred up. He was going to put an end to Neal’s pushing the envelope right now. He cornered Jones and wanted to know when Caffrey had left. Jones furrowed his brow and told Peter that Neal had left for lunch around 12:30PM but had never returned. Jones just assumed that he and Peter had rendezvoused some time after lunch to work on a case outside of the office. When Peter pulled up Neal’s tracking data, he felt his stomach drop when he saw that Neal was at the 12^th precinct and had been there for almost the whole afternoon.

      On the drive over to NYPD, thoughts cascaded through Peter’s brain like a waterfall. What had Neal done now? And whatever “it” was, why now? For the longest time during their relationship, Peter had watched Neal struggle to stay on the straight and narrow path. Sure, there had been missteps along the way, but the things that Neal had gotten himself into were usually done in the course of trying to help someone. God knows, Peter was certainly familiar with Neal’s endeavors to help, no matter what the cost. This whole estrangement between them now was a product of “doing the wrong thing for the right reason.”

      Peter knew that Neal had a good heart, even if Peter had recently accused him of being a criminal, bad to the bone, someone who would never be anything else. It hadn’t been his finest hour. Then Peter thought back to what he had told the FBI panel that held the power of commuting Neal’s sentence over a year ago. He remembered those words as if they were spoken yesterday. “If we continue to treat him like a criminal, then he will always think that he is one.” And wasn’t that what Peter had done recently. So, was that the reason for this backsliding? He needed answers.

      Once he arrived at the 12^th precinct and was directed to the right office, Peter identified himself and demanded to see the person in charge. Kate Beckett was a surprise, beautiful but rigidly unimpressed with the fact that an FBI agent was in her midst. In fact, she looked pissed off and territorial. She calmly informed him that Neal Caffrey was a person of interest in an ongoing homicide investigation, and they were not finished questioning him yet. Then she adamantly refused to allow Peter to see him. Things became a bit more verbally heated from that point on until the Captain of the squad appeared. Apparently she was a veteran who had come up through the ranks and had dealt with her share of imposing irritants who felt entitled. Captain Gates had a backbone of steel and told Peter, in no uncertain terms, to dial it down a few notches. The FBI had no jurisdiction in this case so his continued presence would be a courtesy extended to him if he could play nice in the sandbox. For once, Peter realized that he did not have the upper hand. He was grudgingly escorted to an empty side office to cool his heels by a smirking Hispanic detective, and that’s where he remained for quite some time.

Chapter Text

     While being ostracized and sequestered, Peter first considered calling Reese Hughes, or even going higher up the chain to Bancroft. Then he thought better of that idea. He wanted to get the lay of the land before informing his superiors that Neal may be arrested in the very near future for murder. Instead, he spent the greater part of an hour tracing Neal’s tracking data back days, then weeks. Nothing seemed to jump out at him, so he continued to be perplexed. There was just no way that Neal would commit the ultimate crime of murder. He simply wasn’t capable of that. Then Peter’s mind took him back to the day that Neal had held a gun to Agent Fowler’s head and, for a minute, his faith wavered. But then he mitigated his doubt by rationalizing that what Neal had done that day was a spur of the moment act of passion born out of angry frustration.

      Peter’s mind just kept going round and round and, not for the first time, he felt that he was in over his head when it came time to figuring out Neal Caffrey. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t realize that someone had entered the room. A tall, broad-shouldered man approached hesitantly with a steaming Styrofoam cup that smelled like coffee.

      “I thought maybe you could use this, but I wasn’t sure what you took in it so I brought a little of everything,” he said pleasantly.

      Peter automatically reached for the offered cup and asked, “Are you a detective?”

      When Castle shook his head, Peter then asked, “So what, then? Are you a reporter who hangs around police headquarters hoping to catch a story? I wouldn’t think that ‘ball buster’ of a lead detective would allow that!”

      Castle ducked his head trying to hide his ironic smile. “No, actually I’m an author who hangs around police headquarters and assists my ‘ball buster’ fiancé when she’s investigating murders.”

      Peter was mortified. “Way to go, Peter,” he thought to himself morosely. “Open mouth, insert foot and try to make new friends!”

      “Man, I am so sorry for being a complete ass,” Peter tried to make amends, although he didn’t know if he could come off anymore insensitive and crude. “I am just so totally frustrated by being kept out of the loop when it comes to my responsibility. That man that she is interrogating is definitely my responsibility, and I know that he is not capable of murder.”

      Castle held out his hand, “Richard Castle,” he introduced himself, “And I am of the same mind. Neal Caffrey is one of the good guys who, for unknown reasons, has gotten snarled up in a serial murder case.”

      Peter shook the man’s hand, introduced himself, and then asked incredulously, “Did you say serial murder? And how do you know Neal?”

     “Sorry, I misspoke,” backpedaled Castle. “I shouldn’t have leaked the information that there has been more than one murder. As for Neal, I made his brief acquaintance a while back in Europe.”

     “Maybe the FBI can be of some assistance with the case, but first I have to know what’s going on,” Peter said adamantly.

     “And now you will,” came the feminine voice from the doorway.

      Kate Beckett had gotten nowhere with Neal Caffrey. Maybe he had nothing to do with the three murders, but he certainly seemed to be the impetus surrounding them in some twisted way. Right now she was reserving judgment because she had no concrete evidence and couldn’t hold the man. However, she decided to give him enough rope that he could get tripped up and hang himself. The upshot of that scenario entailed abiding a very pissed off, territorial FBI guy.

      Peter was escorted into a stuffy, small interrogation room where Neal sat looking completely bored.

      “See,” began Kate sarcastically, “not a mark on him so we didn’t break out the rubber hoses.”

      Peter glared at Neal and said gruffly, “Damn it, Neal! You’re like a trouble magnet.”

      “Oh, are we talking now?” Neal asked pleasantly.

      “We’re definitely going to be talking!” Peter answered curtly.

      Both Kate and Richard looked between the two men and wondered at the dynamic that formed their relationship. Right now it seemed antagonistic and that could be a problem. Nevertheless, Beckett laid out a column of glossy pictures of the three dead men, and next to each picture, she placed a corresponding photo of a painting. She explained what Neal had concluded was the significance of each one before she had Ryan bring in the actual painting of “Descent Into Limbo” that Neal had received. She waited for Peter’s reaction.

      He seemed deep in thought then asked the obvious question, “Who do you think sent the painting to you, Neal?”

      “I haven’t a clue as to the ‘who’ or even the ‘why,’” responded Neal. “But I think the murders will continue as this so-called artist works through the circles until it is time for Judgment Day. That’s the really scary part because that could mean anything, but I’m putting my money on catastrophic.”

      Peter turned to Beckett, “I think Neal is right. With your permission, I’d like to make FBI resources available to you. If you will allow me to take the paintings, I could have our labs go over them with a fine tooth comb for any clues as to their origin. Neal, here, is the expert who could probably tell us if they were painted by the same person. It will still be your case, but we’ll just lend our assistance, if that meets with your approval,” Peter was now ready to grovel since he had acted like a jerk earlier.

      Kate thought this through and then nodded. She was pragmatic and realized that she should use whatever help she could get to avert another murder.

Chapter Text

     There were a few formalities that delayed Neal’s departure before he was allowed to leave the squad room, so Kate took that opportunity to get Peter alone. She very candidly asked, “Are you really sure that you know your CI well enough to say categorically that he is not involved somehow in these murders? This whole hypothesis that he has laid out for us is really bizarre and serpentine. Would he engineer something like this?”

      Peter shouldn’t have been surprised at her skepticism. “I’ve known Caffrey for almost a decade and have studied every piece of information that the FBI gleaned over the years. I have worked side by side with him for over three years now, so I think I know what motivates him. So my take on this…intellectually, he is brilliant and absolutely capable of constructing this intricate scheme. However, morally, this would be anathema to him. That being said, his past is liberally sprinkled with all kinds of strange, less benevolently-inclined characters. Only he would know if one of them is capable of this.”

      “Well, since you’re being honest with me, I’ll return the favor,” said Beckett. “Now that I can tie Neal into the scenario because of the painting that he received, I intend to get a warrant to listen in on his phone and read any texts that he sends or receives. And I’m going to petition the Marshals to have access to his movements at all times.”

      “Fair enough,” responded Peter. “But I’m telling you that you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

~~~~~~~~~

      Later, while driving Neal home, the atmosphere in the car was fraught with tension. Neal was just waiting for Peter to complain about being drawn into another drama because of him. He really didn’t think that Peter would truly believe that he was capable of murder, but these days, who knew what Neal was in Peter’s eyes. To his surprise, Peter simply dropped him off and said that Neal could start work on examining the paintings tomorrow after the NYPD transported them to the FBI.

      The next morning, Neal concluded that all the paintings thus far had been done by the same hand, and done recently. The artist was crude, his work lacking finesse. He had attempted to reproduce the genius accomplishments of Italian and French masters from the 15^th to the 17^th century, but the works were a travesty. Maybe the artist realized his limitations and was only using the medium as a plot device for his murders. Neal’s revelations were interrupted by a call from Kate Beckett. Another murder had occurred that they were attributing to “Dante’s Killer,” as the sick psycho had been christened by the cops.

      Raymond Pryor wasn’t a household name, but he was familiar to many because of his inflammatory blog and printed subversive pamphlets read by like-minded individuals. He was just this side of a survivalist, and his rhetoric, or rants, depending on how you looked at it, centered on guns, supremacy of the Aryan race and hatred of authority. Raymond Pryor had, as of this morning, ceased to exist. He was blown to bits in the tiny office he maintained in a strip mall just over the bridge in New Jersey. Ironically, the name of Pryor’s publication was “Wrath.”

      When Kate, Castle and company searched his small apartment, they found a package wrapped in brown butcher paper propped up against the wall just inside of the door. When they opened it, they found a painting of what appeared to be the biblical representation of the great flood that drowned the sinners of the Old Testament. The painting was a representation of an angry God’s wrath.

      “Are you making any headway?” Beckett demanded when she and Castle met with Peter and Neal and delivered the current painting. “This nut job has already worked his way halfway down the list, and he’s accelerating the time between murders. We don’t have a clue who could be targeted next for heresy, violence, fraud or treachery. There’s no rhyme or reason to the people he chooses, except they exemplify the vice depicted in one of the Circles of Hell. All the victims were from different walks of life and didn’t seem to cross paths in any common area.”

      “Well,” Neal began, clicking up images onto the screen in the FBI conference room, “all of the paintings seem to have a biblical basis, ‘Expulsion of the Moneychangers’ by Valentin de Boulogne was found on the fireplace mantle of the banker’s apartment. A representation of Michelangelo’s depiction of the Flood from the Sistine Chapel being the latest one after the blog guy met his maker. Maybe it’s somebody with a tie to the clergy or a theology student.”

      Peter then chimed in. “The paint and canvas used could have been bought in a thousand different art supply shops, and the frames were generic and could have been purchased at any craft store. Sorry that we can’t narrow that down for you. Profile-wise, your killer likes to kill from afar and not get up close and personal, and he probably considers himself to be extremely clever. He gets off on being smarter than the police. Do you have any information on the explosives used?”

      The NYPD was working that angle, but had nothing conclusive yet, so Beckett and Castle left the FBI with no insights, and Kate still had reservations about Caffrey. Apparently, so did Peter because he corralled his CI in a secluded room of the FBI and said, “Okay, Neal, level with me. Is there something that you’re not sharing with me? Do you have information that makes you suspect someone, but you don’t want to say because that may put a ‘friend’ in jeopardy?”

      Even though he was normally placid and kept his feelings of disenchantment under control around Peter these days, Neal could feel his anger surfacing. “Peter, has your opinion of me sunk so low that you would think that I am capable of something so depraved? Whatever happened to that lofty caveat that you trotted out at the Handler/CI panel………when there isn’t trust, there is faith that whatever the other is doing is for a good reason. Was that all just smoke you were blowing to impress the FBI minions?”

      Neal had gotten himself worked up to a full head of steam now. It was the result of having suppressed the hurt that Peter had so arrogantly inflicted on Neal after he made sure that Peter didn’t face murder charges. Neal felt his anger bubbling to the surface, and to avoid a monumental eruption, he stormed out of the room. Peter decided not to call him on the temper tantrum and let him be for the moment. He realized that there was a lot of truth in what Neal had said, and he felt a pang of guilt for his haughty attitude of late. Talk about a dichotomous crisis of the soul! All this talk of knowing Neal Caffrey when, in reality, maybe he didn’t know himself.

Chapter Text

     Neal was debating the merits of take-out Thai versus Indian when there was a knock at his door. If this was Peter come to reprimand him, Neal wasn’t sure what he would do. Jumping off of the balcony sounded like a possible option right now. Instead, it was Richard Castle bearing gifts…a Macallan Single Malt Scotch in a brown paper bag.

      “I thought maybe the two of us could imbibe a bit while we put our heads together away from the pressure of the maddening crowd,” beamed Castle as he waggled his eyebrows comically. “Perhaps because of who we are and what we do, you and I may possess a more global approach to solving riddles. Every one of my books is a challenge to get all the moving parts to make sense. I’m sure your many incarnations may have required similar talents.”

      In truth, Richard Castle was very perceptive, no doubt from creating characters on a page that had to become real to the reader. He sensed that something was way off between Neal and his FBI handler. The relationship seemed more than professional, but Castle felt something wasn’t right. It wasn’t his business, so he would let it lie unless Caffrey confided in him. Fat chance of that, thought Castle. A conman’s façade was like the walls of a fortress…..unbreachable.

      Neal opened the door wider to admit the writer. “So, did your girlfriend send you to ply me with spirits and get a drunken confession?” asked Neal suspiciously.

      “Nah! This is supposed to be my poker night, but we can play poker if you want,” smiled Castle.

      Neal relaxed a bit. He realized that he had been wound tight for quite awhile now. Maybe he just needed the perspective that liquor on an empty stomach could provide. So, he and Richard Castle brainstormed. They wrote copious notes on legal pads, drew lines and boxes, and then free-associated while getting pleasantly mellow. Taking a break, they wound up sitting on the terrace in the moonlight, each deep in their own thoughts, until, suddenly, both men became aware of a looming presence in the doorway. Peter Burke, a thunderous scowl on his face, stood there taking in the scene.

      “Wow!” remarked Castle. “Does your FBI handler just let himself in whenever he feels like it?”

      “Only when he’s in ‘Alpha Male’ mode,” quipped Neal.

      Castle looked between a scowling Neal and a glowering Peter, and a glimmer of an inkling wormed its way through his brain. He lifted a pointed index finger and waved it back and forth between the two and grimaced as he said, “Ah, now I get it. Sorry, didn’t mean to invade your turf, Agent Burke. My bad.”

      It took a minute for both Neal and Peter to get the implication before both yelped out a “NO!”

      Castle held up both hands in a placating gesture. “I think it’s time for me to hit the road. Obviously the two of you have issues that you need to work out. Keep the Scotch, Neal. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” With that he made a hasty retreat to the door.

      “Wonderful, Neal, just wonderful! Now the NYPD is going to think we’re a couple.” Peter felt like hitting the wall. “What was that guy doing here, anyway?”

      “We were just posta, postu, postrating……aw, hell, we were trying to figure out something on this gruesome case.” Neal now knew he was way past merely tipsy. He should have eaten something. “Stupid, Caffrey,” he mentally berated himself.

      “Neal, you’re drunk!” Peter stated with certainty.

      “Man, you’re really good at detecting things, Agent Burke.” Neal applauded softly.

      “Neal, it would be useless to try and talk to you right now about this case. Just go to bed before you fall down,” Peter said wearily.

      “I’m not going to go to bed while you’re still here,” Neal stated emphatically.

      Peter just shook his head resignedly. Sometimes Neal was as perverse and as inexplicable as a teenage girl. “Fine, just make sure that you get to work on time tomorrow.”

      After Peter had closed the door behind him, Neal’s phone buzzed. The young man’s drowsiness disappeared and his muddled senses became crystal clear as he read the text on his phone screen.

     “I admire your work so much. I hope that you have been admiring mine.”

      Neal texted back, “I do admire your work. When can we meet to talk about it? There is so much I want to know.”

     He didn’t get a response. Finally, after a quiet half hour, Neal placed a call to Kate Beckett. She, of course, was already aware of the nightly missive because of the tap on Neal’s phone. It made her a little bit less suspicious of him when he called to report it. The next morning at the FBI office, Peter was far from happy.

      “Neal, you got that text and you didn’t tell me about it. I had to hear it from that detective this morning. Why didn’t you call me?” Peter demanded to know.

      “Because it’s her case, Peter, not the FBI’s. We’re merely supposed to be lending ancillary help with the evidence in the case, not investigating it ourselves. You have a habit of invading other people’s space, Peter, and it will get us completely shut out if you’re not more diplomatic.”

      “Sorry that I don’t possess your conman’s grace of manipulating people to get what I want,” spat Peter. He was immediately contrite when he saw Neal’s face shutter. God, things were going from bad to worse between him and his CI. He really needed to fix this, but he wasn’t sure how to do that right now.

Chapter Text

     Neal sat in a conference room at the 12^th precinct flanked by Castle and Beckett. Peter sat off to the side, granted the courtesy of being an observer in the drama that was playing out. As of now, neither the NYPD nor the FBI had been able to get a trace on what had been an obvious burner phone. Beckett had encouraged Neal to continue to text in the hopes of getting a dialogue going between himself and “Dante’s Killer.”

      “It’s been two days and so far we don’t think that he has found a victim for Heresy at this point,” said Beckett. “Unless, of course, we haven’t yet discovered a victim,” she said pessimistically.

      In a fit of frustrated pique, Neal once again sent a text, simple in its query, “Are you there?”

      Everyone in the room seemed to startle when Neal’s phone buzzed indicating an incoming message. Probably Mozzie, Neal thought, but when he opened the text, a chill went up his spine.

      “I am here.”

      “Engage him!” barked Beckett, “keep him texting.”

      “You are very impressive. Dante’s Inferno. I am intrigued by your choice.” Neal quickly texted.

      “So you got the meaning of my messages. I am not surprised. I knew that you would once you read about them in the newspaper.”

      “Is that why you sent me the first painting of Limbo? Did you want to include me in the game?”  Neal continued the dialogue.

      “It is not a game. It is a countdown to the day of reckoning for the evils of mankind. It is a prelude to Judgment Day.”

      After that dire prediction, Neal replied, “How will you pick Heresy, the next circle to Hell? May I become part of the process of choosing?”

      “Too late, but I think that you will appreciate the symbolism of this one.” After that ominous reply, the killer’s texting ceased.

~~~~~~~~~~

      The next day, Dennis Chenowith, an auditor, or counselor, of the Church of Scientology in Manhattan was electrocuted. In the practice of Scientology, it is customary for auditors to perform a one-on-one session using an E-Meter, a device that measures minute changes in electrical resistance through the body when a person holds the electrodes as current is passed through them. The device that Chenowith was using had been tampered with to enable a strong enough current to pass through his body effectively stopping his heart. His wife on Staten Island reported that a package was left on the couple’s doorstep. It was a painting depicting “A Scene from the Life of St. Thomas d’ Aquinas: the Debate with the Heretic.” The original artist was Bartolomeo degli Erri, a 13^th century Italian master.

      The “Dante’s Killer” team, which now had expanded to include numerous other NYPD detectives as well as Peter’s team from the FBI, all assembled in the conference room once again at the 12^th precinct. White boards with victims’ photos but scant evidence lined the perimeter of the room.

1. Limbo – Neal Caffrey
2. Lust – sex club owner
3. Gluttony – gourmand
4. Greed – banker
5. Wrath – blogger
6. Heresy – Scientologist
7. Violence - ?
8. Fraud - ?
9. Treachery -?

 The score card tally was one sided:

 Dante’s Killer: 5    Police: 0

     “If he’s following the script, the next circle is Violence,” quipped Castle. Maybe he’ll off himself in a fit of violence.” Gallows humor was typical when law enforcers were stymied and frustrated.

      “The only lead we have so far is that the bomb forensic team has determined that dynamite was used to blow up Raymond Pryor’s “Wrath” office. The sale of dynamite is strictly controlled and records are kept of who purchased it and the reason. In the last month, a construction company purchased a quantity that was being used to excavate a site near Fordham University in the Bronx. Apparently, they needed to remove some large boulders to make way for the construction of a new building on the campus. When we spoke to the foreman, he claimed that the count was off and he was missing three sticks. He neglected to report that to the police at the time,” Beckett said sarcastically. “We’ve checked him out and he has an alibi for three of the murders, and I seriously do not get the impression that this guy is clever enough to mastermind something like this.”

      Neal had perked up at the mention of Fordham University.

     “Fordham University has its roots in religion, having been founded by the Catholic Diocese of New York in the mid 1800s. Its liberal arts curriculum espouses the moral values of the Society of Jesus from the 16^th century. The Jesuit influence is big on philosophy, ethics, history, fine arts and, of course, religious studies. It might also be a fertile place to influence our zealot who seemed obsessed with religious paintings and classical medieval poetry.”

      Everyone in the room stared at Neal with open mouths.

     “He does that on occasion…..comes up with stuff that leaves you wondering how his brain works,” said Peter wryly.

     “Whatever….” Kate quipped. “He may be on to something, but the college is huge, that campus in the Bronx is just one of many.”

     “Yeah, but really close to where the dynamite was stolen from the construction trailer,” Castle remarked excitedly.

     “The NYPD has already been out to the site once to investigate the stolen dynamite. It might seem odd if we started prowling around inside the buildings. It might spook whoever this killer is, if, in fact, he is there.” Kate was already thinking of a way to proceed.

      “I could go,” Neal offered. “You know, sort of visit the classrooms, audit some courses like art or ethics, meet the professors, and ask about any overly obsessive students that they may have noticed.”

     “That seems like a long shot,” remarked Kate, “but right now I’m willing to grasp at any straw no matter how flimsy.”

     “I’ll go with you tomorrow,” said Peter firmly.

     “Seriously, Peter,” Neal looked at his handler dubiously. “I could possibly pass for a grad student, but you and your Brooks Brothers and wingtips scream law enforcement. I’ll be better off doing this alone.”

     “He’s right, you know,” stated Castle resolutely. “That look you’ve got going on just ain’t happening on a college campus.”

     “Fine, but the anklet stays on. I’ll just inform the Marshals that you’re working on a case and will be out of your radius. That way if anybody gets any funny ideas about abducting you, we’ll know where you are.” Peter was adamant now, and just as worried.

      Neal simply snorted his displeasure and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t make himself believe that Peter was apprehensive solely about his welfare. He was sure that his handler meant that he was worried that Neal might get some funny ideas about skipping town!

Chapter Text

     Peter insisted on driving Neal to the Rose Hill Campus of Fordham College in the Bronx. The con artist was dressed in chinos and a Henley and looked much younger than he had any right to look. But, Neal was a chameleon and could blend in anywhere. That was his stock in trade. Neither man said much during the ride. The silence was uncomfortable for both of them. Peter gave in first by asking about Neal’s plan of action for the day.

      “I looked up their curriculum on line last night and a lot of the courses seem promising: art history, theology, medieval studies and philosophy. I’ll find out the class times and sit in on a few to get the lay of the land. Maybe something will pop out at me.” Neal mused out loud.

      As he dropped Neal off at the edge of the campus, Peter finally looked at his CI and told him to be careful.

      Neal gave him his patented conman smile and merely replied, “Always.”

      Peter reached out and caught Neal’s forearm. “Neal, the body count stands at five; I don’t want you to be his sixth victim because seeing you poking around his home turf spooks him.”

      Neal studied Peter for a few seconds, blue eyes piercing Peter’s brown ones with a strange intensity. Finally he remarked, “I wasn’t sure you cared anymore, Peter.” With that, he was out of the car and strutting away before Peter could respond.

      Neal never heard the words that Peter uttered softly, “God help me, but I do care.”

      Neal was impressed with the lovely campus aglow in the dazzling autumn sunlight. Keating Hall, a wondrous bit of architecture dating back to 1936 was the centerpiece around which other smaller buildings proliferated. It was extraordinarily beautiful, rivaling the grandeur of any English castle, with a central, square bell tower that soared into the sky amid a backdrop of mature well-tended trees that were just beginning to turn color. Neal sighed and mourned a youth that was never given the opportunity to blossom in such a paradise as this. His formative years were spent in the school of hard knocks. But Neal was never one for melancholy and he was on a mission, so he tucked away his feelings into a locked box within his brain, pulled out his campus map and started falling in step with some students headed into Keating Hall.

      He first attended a religious studies seminar. It was interesting, but no one seemed to pay him any mind. Next stop was a philosophy course that was quite intellectually stimulating with a professor who seemed passionate about his subject matter and engaged his students in lively discussions. Again, nobody looked at him with undue attention or curiosity.

     Taking a bit of a break, Neal grabbed a sandwich at one of the cafeterias and people-watched for a bit. The mix of students was eclectic, young and not so young alike, all hurrying about with laptops and backpacks, and phones in their hands, all with a goal, a destination. Was there a serial killer among them?

      Neal was determined to hang in for the long haul, so he sought out the art history building. The professor was adequate, but lacked the ardent élan that Neal felt every time he beheld a great work of mastery, whether it was a product of the Renaissance or a contemporary pop artist. Today the discussion was on abstract expressionism, as far afield from the Dante’s Killer’s work as one could get. After the lecture, Neal meandered through a studio where several students were working on various projects. Tucked away in a corner, a half finished painting caught his eye. It was a stark tableau depicting Christ’s crucifixion.

      Neal moved closer and studied the technique and use of color and his heart rate sped up. He would bet his life that this was the same artist who marked each death with such a tribute. While he was engrossed in his examination, someone behind him said, “Can I help you?”

      Neal spun around to face the professor whose class he had just attended. He smiled his most beguiling smile and stuck out his hand. “Nick Halden,” he said. “I’m trying to decide about matriculating here and Dean Masterson was kind enough to let me sit in on some classes to help me make up my mind,” Neal lied convincingly.

      “Jud Alpert,” the professor introduced himself. “I’m sure that you’ll be able to find something here that will help you decide. Fordham is a remarkable institution with something for everybody. Are you interested in art?”

      “Actually, I am quite interested in that discipline. I found your lecture to be stimulating,” Neal continued to stretch the truth. “Since you seem to be currently studying the modern period, this particular painting caught my eye because it really seemed out of context.”

      “Oh, that piece is not being done by a student. One of our professors comes in here when he has the odd hour off to work on it. He’s actually finished quite a few before this one.”

      “Who might that be,” asked Neal curiously. “His work has an arresting quality to it. I’d like to discuss it with him sometime.”

      “His name is David Wyatt and he’s a professor who teaches an ethics seminar. I don’t believe that he has tenure, so he just teaches the occasional class here and there,” replied Alpert.

      “Is all of his work in the religious vein?” asked Neal.

      “Pretty much, yes. I think I heard that he used to be a Jesuit priest but then left the Order to pursue secular academia.”

      “Well, then I suppose that gives him a unique perspective on a lot of things,” Neal probed innocuously.

      “He’s a bit of an odd duck, but then most of us crusty old professors are,” Alpert laughed as he poked fun at himself.

      “Well, I’ll certainly try to sit in on a class of his sometime,” said Neal nonchalantly. “If I can catch him in the proper frame of mind, maybe he’ll agree to discuss his art with me.”

      After exiting the building with a growing sense of euphoria, Neal checked the course listing for Wyatt’s class. Serendipity….he was teaching his ethics class in an hour. Neal would be there!

Chapter Text

     Neal knew that he should call Beckett or Peter with his suspicions and his plan to possibly meet Dante’s Killer. But this whole scenario needed finesse and chutzpah rather than a bevy of detectives dragging off a suspect for an interrogation who had proven that he was very clever and circuitous. Neal wanted to be absolutely sure that this was the diabolical killer before he sent up a flare, and he’d use his conman’s instinct of reading people to that end. Peter would call him impulsive and foolhardy, but it wasn’t about pleasing Peter anymore. That bridge had been burned a while ago.

      Neal took a seat front and center in the hall where Professor Wyatt would give his lecture. At the appointed hour, a strutting little peacock of a man appeared at the lectern and looked over his glasses at the assembled student body. His eyes stopped on Neal and widened slightly, and Neal knew that his suspicions were on the money. Nevertheless, the professor hardly missed a beat as he launched into his ethics lecture espousing a ranting oratory that would have made Mozzie proud.

      Neal’s stare never faltered, but the man before him appeared unfazed. When the discourse concluded, Neal stayed in his seat until the professor approached him. When Neal stood up, he literally towered over the other man, who looked up at him with a shrewd, seemingly omniscient gaze. “Mr. Caffrey,” he purred, “how good of you to come.”

      “My pleasure, Professor Wyatt,” Neal smiled.

      “I would love to stay and talk with you, but I have a faculty meeting in ten minutes. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow afternoon, say around 3 PM after my lecture?” Wyatt asked smoothly. “You and I have so much to discuss. Don’t you agree?”

      “Of course,” Neal replied. He would need to get this man talking in order to get him to incriminate himself by having too much knowledge regarding Dante’s Killer, or perhaps simply bragging to Neal about his brilliance in order to impress him. And he really wanted to know why this nutcase had singled him out as the beginning of his lethal puzzle. Right now Neal thought that there was a little leeway in the time frame since the painting of the crucifixion wasn’t yet completed.

      “Well, then, tomorrow it is. I’ll meet you outside of Keating Hall.” And with that, the little man scurried from the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

      During the cab ride back to Manhattan, Neal telephoned Detective Beckett and asked her to wait for him at the precinct house because he had news and needed to speak with her in person. He really was reticent to discuss his theory within earshot of the taxi driver. She and Castle would wait for his arrival. When he met them in the conference room along with Ryan and Esposito, Peter was already there. “Right,” Neal reasoned to himself, “he’s probably been poring over my tracking data in real time all day so he could know where I was every minute!”

      With everyone’s attention fixed on him, Neal explained his hunch and his plan to meet with the suspected serial killer the next day. The police wanted him to wear a wire, but Neal opted for a high-tech tiny bug, courtesy of the FBI, that could be hidden in a button on his shirt. Peter was antsy during the whole planning process until Neal took him aside and flat-out asked him what his problem was.

      “My problem, Neal, is that the police are using you as bait. They’re dangling you in front of a psycho who has already killed five people and now realizes that you know his identity. He probably has plans for you that end with you never leaving that campus alive. Neal, you don’t have to do this.”

      “Peter, the FBI has been using me as bait on cases since my deal with the anklet began years ago.”

      “Yeah, but White Collar criminals are a bit tamer than serial killers,” retorted Peter.

      “I’ve had more guns pointed at me since I’ve been in the ‘tame’ division of the FBI than in my whole career as a criminal!” Neal said in exasperation. “Besides, I want to be of some value to someone. I want to be proactive, not sitting at a desk day after day researching mortgage fraud cases.”

      “So this is really about us, is that what you’re saying?” asked Peter heatedly. “Are you doing this to get back at me for putting some distance between us?”

      “Everything isn’t always about you, Peter!” Neal sniped.

      “Is there a problem?” asked Beckett as she overheard some of the argument. “We will have plain clothes detectives around Neal at all times, and SWAT snipers on the rooftops of the adjacent buildings. We’ll be listening in to every word spoken so we’ll know if the good professor becomes suspicious. There will be no heroics on anybody’s part because we will have this covered as tight as a drum. In the meantime, we have been culling all the information that we could find on Professor Wyatt. Come back to the table and we’ll fill you in.”

      David Wyatt was 46 years old, unmarried and had no police record. He had been born and raised in the Midwest, in a little suburb of Des Moines, Iowa. He had been educated in Catholic schools since kindergarten, and went on to obtain undergrad degrees as well as post-grad doctorates in theology and art history at Loyola College in Baltimore, Maryland. Eventually, he entered a Jesuit seminary after college to become an ordained priest. Six years ago, he abruptly left the Order to lead a secular life, obtaining a position at Fordham as a professor of ethics. He lived in a tiny apartment in Lower Manhattan.

      Beckett continued the summarization that her detectives had managed to compile.

      “His financial records show no credit card debt, but not much savings either. We haven’t had the time to find out anything about a life outside of work yet, like friends or acquaintances, so we can’t give Neal much to work with in that area. And we can’t see why he singled you out for that first painting either, Neal.”

      Neal shrugged and lifted his hands in a puzzled gesture.

      “That’s definitely one of the things that I want to know as well.”

      “Neal, you read people for a living. It’s what conmen do. They say the right things to get their marks to do what they want. How do you read this guy, and how do you plan to get him to admit anything?” Peter was less than tactful with his approach, but he really wanted to know.

      Neal all but covered a glare directed at Peter before he responded, “Oh, he’ll want to boast about his cleverness. He’s pompous, feels self-important, definitely considers himself to be the smartest guy in the room, and is almost fanatical when he lectures about the weaknesses of society as a whole. He stopped just short of espousing conspiracy theories. Oh, and he’s really short, probably no more than 5’3.” Neal concluded.

      The others looked at him with a question in their expressions until Castle piped up, “He has ‘little man syndrome!’”

      Now the quizzical expressions were aimed at the author.

      “You know, some really short men have to project a tough, superior attitude to negate any feelings of inadequacy that they have about their stature. Sort of like a Chihuahua who thinks and acts like he’s a Pit Bull, or the characters that a short James Cagney played in the movies….gangsters and tough guys.”

      “That’s probably the reason that all the murders were done from afar rather than up close and personal,” concluded Neal. “Physically, he would have been no match for his victims if they put up a fight.”

      Neal smiled at Castle. They were definitely on the same page, and it irked Peter that some guy who was only a passing acquaintance of Neal’s could so easily be in sync with his CI while he was still floundering. What did that say about where their relationship was at present?

Chapter Text

      Peter had spent an almost sleepless night thinking of all the things that could go wrong in the upcoming meeting. Neal hadn’t come into the office today. His anklet showed that he was at the 12^th precinct with his new best friends. “Peter, Peter, Peter,” he scolded himself, “you have to get past this animosity, or is it jealousy that you’re harboring.” Finally, in exasperation, he took himself into the lion’s den.

      The NYPD had brought in their psychiatric liaison to mentor Neal on how to handle the face to face with the probable serial killer. They were deep into their discussion and didn’t notice Peter. As Peter saw it, the momentous problem that the police faced was that they had no idea what made this deadly assassin tick. They didn’t know what drove him to kill five random people who apparently offended him with their lifestyles and deeds. What was the trigger that led to this? Peter hoped with all of his soul that Neal could talk his way around this guy without setting him off.

      As the rendezvous time approached, Peter insisted on being the one to drive Neal out to the Bronx campus. Kate Beckett was busily coordinating her undercover cops and getting SWAT on standby in a van situated as near to Keating Hall as possible. Neal was quiet during the drive, and Peter was just as much at a loss for words. Both were very much aware of the hidden audio device in Neal’s shirt, and neither wanted to include listening ears into any conversations that they might need to have.

      At ten minutes to three, Neal simply stated, “Show time!” and was out of the car before Peter could respond. Peter gave him a few minutes head start and then he followed at a discreet distance. He hoped that he didn’t appear suspicious. He had gone for the tweedy look of the absent-minded professor, with a battered briefcase and spectacles.

      Neal waited patiently in front of the impressive edifice at the appointed time until Professor Wyatt approached him.

      “Mr. Caffrey,” was all that the shorter man said as he came up to Neal.

     “Professor Wyatt,” Neal acknowledged with a serious expression on his face.

      “Walk with me,” invited the professor with a slight smile.

      The man turned toward the building behind them, and Neal fell in step beside him as they entered Keating Hall. The suspected murderer opened the door to the stairs at the rear of the hall and began trudging upward. Neal followed behind. Their ascent went on and on, staircase after staircase, until they had apparently reached the summit. Wyatt opened the door and stepped out into open air and sunlight, with Neal following in his wake. They were in the bell tower and Neal assessed that they were at least seven or eight stories from the ground. He had lost count of the flights of steps during their rigorous trek. At the front and the back of the campanile were massive open air arches that afforded a magnificent view of the surrounding acres of campus. Wyatt moved towards the one at the rear of the building. Neal moved to his side.

      “Tell me what you see, Mr. Caffrey,” the professor addressed Neal.

      Neal took in the breathtaking scene of mature trees dressed in autumn foliage. The panorama of the color pallet included almost every warm shade on the color wheel. The backdrop was a cerulean blue sky with the occasional white cumulous cloud wafting across the tableau.

     “Beauty,” Neal said simply.

      “I know that you are viewing through the eyes of an artist’s soul. Yes, this is God’s majesty given to man to enjoy,” Wyatt responded in a whisper. “Now look down and tell me what you see.”

      Neal obliged and noted the rush of people, hurrying along the paths intersecting the buildings, each to their own destinations. “I see mankind,” he again simply stated.

      “Yes!” exclaimed the man beside him. “God created a wondrous paradise and then bequeathed it to mankind. The Ultimate Creator gave us the great gift of beauty and yet mankind is heedless of it. Instead man has become the catalyst for destroying beauty and everything that is good in the world.”

      Neal turned back from the opening and sat on the small cement ledge that the alcove created. He no longer towered over the diminutive professor. Actually, he was a bit below eye level and had to incline his head to meet the other man’s gaze. The NYPD psychiatrist had stressed the importance of not appearing to be dominant or threatening when he met with the suspected killer. Neal had a conman’s fortitude to know that having to look up to someone during a conversation made that person feel in control of the situation and less stressed. Plus being seated provided him with a lower profile as a target in case the SWAT snipers decided to open up.

      “So are you on a crusade to eliminate those who do not appreciate beauty?” asked Neal curiously.

      “Now, Mr. Caffrey, we both know that would be an impossible task, I’m afraid. I am simply making a small statement before Judgment Day. That is when the world will sit up and take notice. The ‘incidents’ to which you refer are simply the prelude. Perhaps that rotund swine who considered himself an epicure would say they were the appetizers before the main course.”

      “So, we’re counting down to Judgment Day after you choose who shall represent violence, fraud and treachery. Exactly what is this ultimate climax that you have formulated?” Neal continued to probe.

      Wyatt smiled and looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the finale that I have planned. I know that you possess an extraordinary intellect, but even you won’t be able to figure it out because this time there will be no breadcrumbs for you to follow.”

      Neal felt a chill go up his spine, but there was something that he had to know.

      “Why me, Professor? Why did you send me that painting of Limbo?”

      Wyatt accommodated Neal by saying, “While still a Jesuit priest, I was able to visit Rome, the Vatican, and so many of the holy cathedrals and churches there. The Medieval artwork captured my soul. During my stay, there was much publicity surrounding the discovery of some forgeries taken from one particular church. You were the suspected thief who had left his own work behind, work so exquisite that its provenance wasn’t noticed until it had been taken to experts for routine cleaning. When I returned Stateside, I tried to learn everything that I could about you. Your work was amazing and, as a fellow artist, I recognized a kindred spirit, one who had been given a true gift from God. You appreciate as well as create beauty, Mr. Caffrey. I was also gratified that your mind was capable of deciphering the omens that I orchestrated, one by one, as depicted in Dante’s Inferno.”

      “I’m a forger, Professor Wyatt,” Neal said softly, “I merely copy the work of the real artistic geniuses. I don’t create my own visions; I simply reproduce those of others.”

      “That’s because you are still in Limbo and cannot unleash your own genius. I mentioned that I studied you and know everything about you. I know that you are oppressively chained and you long to soar. I know how that feels, but soon, very soon, you shall ascend, as will I, when our fetters are broken. It will happen, my friend; it will happen soon.”

Chapter Text

     Detective Beckett had heard enough. The bastard had verbally implied that he was the mastermind behind the murders and it was time to take him down. She relayed the signal to the SWAT team who began to quietly make their way up the stairs of the bell tower. Meanwhile Neal continued to probe.

     “Have you decided on the person who exemplifies Violence yet?” Neal asked. “I noticed that your painting of the Crucifixion is still a work in progress.”

     “Not yet, but there are so many candidates worthy of that distinction, don’t you think? Wyatt said smugly.

      While their conversation was in progress, the door to the bell tower enclosure smashed open and Wyatt turned to see armed black-clad, helmeted men converging. His eyes went wide. With a panicked “fight or flight” lunge towards the opening in the walls, he succeeded in sending both himself and Neal over the cement sill and plummeting downward. Peter, Kate and Richard, watching from below, were frozen in the moment as they saw two bodies falling relentlessly toward the ground. Peter’s brain recalled images that he had seen on 9-11 as people fell to certain death when the inferno that was the World Trade Center sought to engulf them.

      Everyone on the operation took off running. Wyatt was the first body they encountered. He had apparently sailed over Neal with his adrenalin-fueled momentum and gone straight down to hit the ground head first. It was obvious from the unnatural angle of his head and shoulders that his neck was broken. Neal hadn’t so much plunged as toppled into the void. While falling, he was almost horizontal at first and had hit a full grown maple tree near the side of the building before rolling onto a mature privet hedge and eventually coming to rest on the lawn. When Peter reached him, his CI was unresponsive, but Peter could detect a pulse as he frantically pressed his fingers to the spot below Neal’s ear. He was also breathing, thank God! Afraid to move him for fear of causing more injury to his partner, Peter simply touched Neal’s hand and kept chanting, “I’ve got you, Neal. It’s going to be okay.”

      EMTs were called and it seemed like an eternity before they arrived. Beckett was overseeing and securing the scene, but Richard Castle stayed by Peter’s side until they were both nudged away by expediently efficient first responders. Like a graceful ballet, the medical duo performed their choreographed dance with little wasted motion. After all the procedures were completed and Neal’s head and neck secured with a collar, he was loaded onto a hard backboard and into the awaiting ambulance. He never regained consciousness.

      “I’ve got to follow him to the hospital,” Peter said in a voice that he didn’t recognize as his own.

      Richard put a hand on his arm and said, “I’ll take you. You’re in no shape to drive yourself.”

      True to his word, Richard deposited Peter at the doors of the emergency room while he then went to park the car. Once inside the doors of the chaotic room, Peter made his way to a harried clerk at the desk. After determining that Peter was Neal’s advocate and had medical power of attorney for him, she asked if he knew Neal’s medical history and if he was allergic to anything. To Peter’s knowledge, Neal didn’t have any allergies, but, as for the rest of the history, he was at a loss. Nonetheless, he took the clipboard with the various papers and sat down on a hard plastic chair and tried to wrap his head around what had happened. The enormity of it threatened to overwhelm him. Castle found Peter sitting in that hard plastic chair simply staring into space. After ascertaining that there was no word yet, he graciously asked if he could call anyone.

     “My team will be briefing my boss, but I really think I need to call my wife,” said Peter.

     Castle gave him a surprised look, and Peter remarked, “Yes, I have a wife. Neal and I may be partners, but we’re definitely not a couple.”

     During the time awaiting word from the doctors working on Neal, Peter began to reflect on just “what” he and his CI were at this point in time. When it had all started years ago, Neal had been his annoying, elusive nemesis. After Peter had caught him, Neal had become a feather in Peter’s cap and his claim to fame at the Bureau. When he took the young man on as his CI, Neal became a challenge to keep on the straight and narrow. Now, he really didn’t know exactly what he and Neal had become.

      It wasn’t long before El arrived and her presence was the only thing that rescued him from the fugue he had entered. Diana and Jones showed up a few minutes later with several other agents in tow. More and more arrived; even Reese Hughes made an appearance. There were people representing every department of the federal building, from the mail room personnel to the file clerks in the library. Despite Peter and Neal’s present estrangement, over the years Neal had apparently worked his magic on a great many people who had once been suspicious and aloof. Now they all seemed genuinely worried about the young man who had consistently made their days a little brighter with his contagious smile and clever repertoire of anecdotal stories.

      Sometime during that first hour, Peter became aware of June, Neal’s benefactress, as she walked regally into the room on the arm of her chauffer. Peter was grateful that El had thought to call her. The older woman looked strained, but her eyes were clear and her jaw firmly set. She was the essence of strength and self-control. Trailing in her wake was the diminutive Mozzie, who strutted in like a Bantam rooster just spoiling for a fight. He blazed a path through an army of federal agents to walk up to Peter and get into his personal space.

      “How did you screw up and let this happen to Neal, Suit? Huh? Just tell me that!” Mozzie demanded angrily.

      When Peter looked up at Mozzie with a haunted look in his eyes, Mozzie seemed to deflate when he saw the devastation that seemed to radiate from the man. He slumped down in a chair next to Peter and simply said, “Tell me.”

      Before Peter could respond, the glass doors to the waiting room were opened by a competent looking man in green scrubs covered by a white lab coat. He scanned the crowded interior and asked to speak to whomever was Neal Caffrey’s contact person. Peter immediately jumped to his feet and introduced himself, all the while trying to read anything ominous in the other man’s expression.

      “Perhaps we should step outside to speak in private,” the newcomer suggested

      Peter, his heart in his throat, drew in a deep breath and dogged the man’s footsteps to just outside of the glass doors.

Chapter Text

     Peter and the newcomer in the lab coat stood together in a small alcove outside of the large waiting room. “My name is Dr. Tyler,” the physician began, “and I am the trauma neurosurgeon who attended Mr. Caffrey when he was brought into the ER.”

      Peter’s heart did a somersault in his chest at the sound of the word “surgeon.”

      “It is my understanding that Mr. Caffrey fell from a significant height, and the injuries that he sustained are a result of that fall. He suffered several broken ribs, and a broken arm and collarbone. There are also fractures to several thoracic vertebrae, but we see no damage to the spinal cord and expect that Mr. Caffrey’s range of motion in his extremities will not be impacted. However, the most critical of the injuries has been to the brain. We have found evidence of a cerebral hematoma that is putting pressure on his brain, and we are monitoring that pressure at present. At some point, we may have to operate to relieve a buildup. Right now it is too soon to tell.”

      The surgeon paused and eyed Peter, most likely trying to gauge his reaction and his understanding of the gravity of the situation. Peter just stood wordlessly before him. With a weary sigh, the doctor continued “The patient is young and appears to be in good physical condition, but that was a lot of trauma for the body to sustain. I am guarded in my expectation of the overall outcome if Mr. Caffrey awakens. Right now he is in a coma. It is the human body’s way of pulling in all of its resources in order to begin the process of healing. My hope is that the patient will eventually awaken and we can then evaluate the extent of damage that the brain trauma may have caused.”

      Peter heard the words and the subtext beneath them. “So you’re saying that he still may die, that he may not come out of the coma, and that if he does wake up, he may have suffered brain damage.”

      “What I’m saying is that Mr. Caffrey is in a very critical state right now, and I couldn’t even venture a guess what his status will be in the long term if he survives,” the surgeon was brutally honest and Peter appreciated that he didn’t hold back the truth, even if it was a truth that Peter didn’t want to hear.

      “Does Mr. Caffrey have a next of kin who should be notified?” the doctor queried.

      “None that are involved in his life,” Peter responded. “I’m the one responsible for him and he’s my friend as well as my associate.” The words slipped automatically from his lips before he even processed what he had said.

      Peter slowly turned and re-entered the waiting room. With every person’s undivided attention, he explained only that Neal was in very critical condition and currently in a coma. He advised everyone to go home and Peter promised that he would continue to update Department Head Hughes, and that he would then pass along information.

      “Would you like me to stay,” asked Castle solicitously?

      “Thanks, Richard, but I think that I have quite a bit of moral support right now. I’ll text you updates, if you’d like.”

      “I would like that, as would Kate,” Castle answered.

      Eventually only Elizabeth, Mozzie and June remained. Peter took a breath and told them everything that the surgeon had said. He couldn’t withhold the truth from them because he needed the comfort of sharing his fear with those closest to Neal. He then told them that he would be staying until he could see Neal, and he bade them go home and keep their phones close.

      “Neal is going to make it, Peter,” June said confidently. “He’s young and he’s strong, and I’d just feel it if he was going to leave us.”

      Peter just nodded mutely.

      Elizabeth kissed her husband gently and offered him a sad little smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She made him promise to call when he wanted her to pick him up. She then turned to Mozzie and offered to drive him wherever he wanted to go. But Mozzie had other ideas.

      “I’m staying, Suit, and you can’t make me leave!” Mozzie looked at Peter defiantly.

      “I’d never ask you to leave Neal,” Peter surprised the little man. “C’mon. Let’s find our way to the ICU waiting room.”

      So began two more long hours of waiting, with an unlikely truce forged between the two polar opposites who cared about Neal. Finally a young nurse came to the ICU waiting room to tell them that her patient had been admitted and was now settled in. She led them to a small glassed-in cubicle and let them enter ahead of her. Neal lay in the bed connected to a myriad of wires and intravenous lines. Machines beeped and displayed innumerable tracings across an LCD monitor mounted on the wall. He had a tube down his throat and his breathing was controlled by a ventilator. He looked fragile and physically diminished, and so very young and vulnerable that it broke Peter’s heart. Both Peter and Mozzie stood frozen for a few beats until Peter found his voice.

      “It never should have come to this. He shouldn’t have been in harm’s way. He didn’t have to prove anything.” After a few silent moments, Peter asked in a soft voice, “Do you think Neal hates me, Mozzie?”

      “Neal doesn’t have it in him to hate you, Suit. But lately he has definitely been conflicted and hurting. With all of your mind reading super powers, you couldn’t discern that!” Mozzie was now in sarcastic mode.

      “What he did to get me released after my indictment for that Senator’s murder just went so against everything that I believed in, I just couldn’t let it go. I needed some distance from him so that I could live with myself,” Peter argued.

      “Climb down off your high horse, Peter, and stop being a hypocrite!” Mozzie’s anger was palpable.

      Sighing wearily, Mozzie finally continued in a more controlled voice. “You are aware that Neal could have cut that anklet at anytime. He could have run the second day you supposedly had him on a leash. But his mistake was being insidiously sucked into the life of federally sanctioned cons. If anything, that’s Neal’s Achilles Heel, the high that he gets from all that drama.”

      “And was that the only reason?” Peter continued to probe. He really couldn’t stop with his question not fully answered.

      “Well, Neal gets attached, you know,” Mozzie finally admitted. “I saw that particular pitfall with Kate. It’s almost like he was born under some malicious star because it seems that whomever he starts to care about just winds up screwing him over again and again. I warned him about getting attached, but he’d never listen. I could only pester him so much before he’d tune me out. I swear it was like watching a train wreck happen in slow motion. You want to look away and spare yourself the heartache, but you just can’t. I knew it wouldn’t end well for him.”

      “I’d never hurt him, Mozzie,” Peter said after a few beats

      “Au contraire, Peter, au contraire,” was Mozzie’s terse reply.

Chapter Text

     When Peter visited Neal the next morning, he was still in a coma, but the brain bleed and resulting pressure hadn’t increased. The doctors took that as a hopeful sign and removed the ventilator. Peter then went to the Bureau to tie up all the paperwork surrounding the FBI’s part in the case. Hughes looked at him with a jaundiced eye and told him to get the hell out of the office for a few days. He wasn’t going to be of any help to anybody while his mind was elsewhere.

      Just as he was getting ready to leave, Kate Beckett walked through the doors. When she spied Peter, she gave a rueful little smile and said that she wanted to give him all the information that they had learned about Professor David Wyatt. Peter knew that she could have sent it over, but her presence was a personal courtesy, no doubt brought on by yesterday’s debacle.

      After the NYPD had gone over the professor’s office and apartment and interviewed those who were acquainted with him, they had reached the conclusion that David Wyatt was undoubtedly a mentally disturbed individual. He had, in fact, been in the Jesuit priesthood until his erratic behavior, paranoia, and flights of fancy caught the attention of his fellow priests. His superior, the monsignor, made psychiatric counseling mandatory, but, rather than concede to that, Wyatt left the seminary and joined the secular life once again. He couldn’t divorce himself from his religion, however, but became rabid in his belief that man espoused evil and had to be redeemed through a violent Judgment Day. Rhetoric found on his home computer pointed to a schizophrenic mind that responded to the voices of a higher power. There were whole dialogues between Satan, God, and himself. Also on the computer were searches into tetrododoxin, sarin gas, and You Tube videos detailing electrical wiring, gas fireplace venting and a “how-to” on dynamite. They theorized that Wyatt’s ultimate day of destruction and retribution was supposed to take place at the United Nations. He had been researching the sewer systems beneath it as well as the ductwork inside. Police conjectured that he had planned to somehow infuse a toxic gas into the edifice while it was in session with representatives from around the world within its walls.

      After Beckett had briefed Peter at length in a precise, professional manner, her tone softened as did her expression. It was then that she inquired about Neal’s condition.

      “I’ll admit that I had my doubts about him at first,” she began, “but in the end, Neal proved he was really one of the good guys, and I am so sorry that it came to this. Would you let me or Castle know how things are going?”

      Peter promised that he would, and once more set off for the hospital. He found Mozzie in a chair beside a still unresponsive Neal reading aloud some in-depth commentary on the propaganda spread by the bureaucratic establishment. At Peter’s upraised eyebrows, Mozzie defended his choice of reading material saying, “I have never been able to get Neal to sit still long enough to hear this stuff, so now is my chance.”

     “Well, it’s nice that you have now been afforded the opportunity to espouse your conspiracy theories, but I would feel a lot better if Neal were awake to shoot them down,” snarked Peter.

      Mozzie sighed and closed the book.

     “I just want him to wake up. It’s been almost two days now.” said Peter quietly.

     “I know, Suit. I know,” said Mozzie just as quietly and made a motion as if to rise.

     Peter put a hand out to stop him. “Just stay with him for awhile. I’ll get a coffee and be back in a bit.” In truth, he needed time to fortify his nerves.

     When Peter returned to spell Mozzie, he had a hard time accepting a Neal who was so pale and quiet. He didn’t realize how much he missed the tornado that was always in motion and so alive. In truth, he missed the “who” and the “what” the two of them used to be. But then Peter realized, with a brutal sense of introspection, they hadn’t been those people for quite some time. They blamed each other for the rift, but, in reality Peter realized that the gulf had developed because he couldn’t accept the new roles that they now played.

      The old dynamic of Peter always being right and Neal needing guidance had been replaced with a Neal who had become more assertive and less dominated by Peter. He wanted Peter to acknowledge his value and to accept him as an equal partner in their relationship. He was willing to admit that he had committed crimes, but he refused to be defined by them. Neal had his own sense of what was right and stood by it with no apology. Paradoxically, it was Neal who now felt a sense of responsibility to protect his handler.

      Peter began to question his own role of always needing to be in control and wondered if that was the problem. No doubt, it was probably a big part of it, but he came to realize that it was his hypocrisy and hubris that was at the heart of the gaping hole in their relationship. The allure of believing his own press was like a siren’s call to Peter. But Neal was right; those lofty closure statistics were not obtained in a vacuum. Neal was just as responsible for that success.

      From day one of their partnership, hadn’t Peter been the one to encourage Neal to do whatever it took to get results? That very first year, he had insinuated that Neal should break into a mobster’s apartment to get evidence about a bible. Then he had sent Neal to talk with a reporter armed only with a stolen Iraqi gold coin that had been illegally obtained. The list went on and on, but Peter had ignored all the grey areas that he had allowed Neal to enter for the successes that Peter craved. Neal had always done what Peter wanted, no questions asked. And now Peter, with his holier than thou attitude, was acting like a hypocrite.

      In the middle of mentally flagellating himself, Peter became aware of another person in the small cubicle. He looked up to see Richard Castle standing hesitantly in the doorway.

      “Mind if I come in?” he asked diffidently.

      Peter stood and shook Castle’s hand. “If it’s all the same to you, let’s talk in the waiting room. It just seems weird to be discussing Neal when he’s in the room but not a part of the conversation.”

      Castle followed Peter out to the nearby family room that was deserted. “How is he?” Castle asked.

      “There’s been no change. He’s still in a coma,” Peter answered with a sigh.

      “It’s hard seeing your partner like this. I almost lost Kate once, and it practically killed me as well.” Richard remembered when Kate had been shot while at a fellow officer’s funeral. Richard had, at that critical juncture, allowed his feelings for her to become real. It had been a turning point in their relationship.

      “The problem is,” Peter began hesitantly, “we haven’t been much like partners lately. I realize that, for the most part, it’s been because of me, and now I may not have the chance to fix things and make us whole again. I’ve taken a good look at myself these last few days and I don’t like the person I have become, and I just don’t know what to do.”

      “I suppose if all of our challenges came with instruction manuals, then it just wouldn’t be life,” said Castle. “You’ll figure it out in your own time, and then you’ll start the repairs.”

      Peter only wished that he would be afforded that opportunity.

Chapter Text

     Over the course of the next two days, Peter and Mozzie took turns staying at Neal’s bedside. It was suggested by the medical staff that they talk to him even though it seemed that he wasn’t aware. No one had any idea how deep his coma was, but they were told that there were incidences of patients awakening from comas who could recall bits and pieces of conversations that went on around them while they seemed to be unconscious.

      When Peter was alone with Neal, he did talk to him, telling him that he didn’t appreciate the fact that Neal had managed to slip away somewhere that Peter couldn’t chase him. “But I’ll be waiting when you decide to come out of hiding,” he admonished as menacingly as he could muster. Neal simply mocked him with his silence.

      Sometimes Peter took a stroll down Memory Lane, remembering the years of the marathon hunt for Neal. Although it was a one-sided conversation, he reminisced with the young man about all the times during the pursuit that Peter thought that he had a clue. He’d chuckle about instances of missteps and misassumptions on his part as well as his insightful epiphanies. When he had exhausted that subject, he filled Neal in on the current events of the day and Peter’s own opinion of the government’s latest faux pas on foreign policy. When he ran out of things to talk about, he read to Neal. Usually it was the newspaper from front to back including the sports section, which he hoped would annoy Neal enough to make him wake up. As dusk was settling outside of the hospital window one evening, Peter let his mind wander into some very dark terrain. What if Neal did not ever wake up? Reese Hughes had visited the day before and had brought up that very topic.

      “Peter, you are Caffrey’s medical power of attorney to make decisions for him if he is unable to do so himself. Have you given some serious thought to the ‘what if’ possibility?”

      “I don’t think that Draconian decisions are necessary yet, Reese. We just need to give him more time,” Peter said defensively.

      “Peter, cut me some slack here,” Reese responded. “I am not without a heart as well as a brain. But thinking ahead, what happens if Neal does not wake up? He won’t be fulfilling his parole obligation to the Bureau, so his deal will be null and void. Eventually, he’ll have to go to some kind of federal facility that can handle someone in a coma. But it will be behind bars, Peter, make no mistake about that. Are you prepared for that possibility?”

     Peter realized the gravity of what his boss was saying. And he also realized that this was something that was beyond Hughes’ control.

     “Neal was and is my partner. Too many people in his life have given up on him, and I just can’t do that. I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet.” Did he just use a euphemism for “keeping the faith?” But hadn’t he lost his faith in Neal these last few weeks? He suspected that Neal had certainly lost faith in him.

     After a long, uncomfortable silence, Hughes tried to re-direct the conversation and lessen the tension. “Peter, I hope that I am man enough to admit when I’m wrong. I had definite reservations about you taking on Caffrey at the beginning. I thought there was no way it would end well for you, and I worried what it would do to your career and to you personally. People may think that I am out of the loop, but I do know what goes on around me. I’m aware of the mischief that Neal has gotten into many times, and I’d be a fool not to assume that you have covered for him on many occasions. I bided my time doing anything about it because your closure rate was beginning to soar. But that was not the only reason that I held off. I also became aware of the unusual bond that the two of you shared. I’m not naive enough to think that Caffrey worked his magic for the Bureau. He was doing it for you. He seemed devoted to you and followed you around like a puppy eager to please and receive your praise. If you weren’t in the picture, all of us at the Bureau would be seeing Neal’s dust.”

     When no response came from Peter, Hughes tried again.

     “Diana made me smile yesterday when she said that she always thought that she would be the one responsible for Caffrey’s demise. She claimed that eventually he’d aggravate her to the point that she’d strangle him!”

      Peter finally smiled. His missed the camaraderie of his team. He felt like a man marooned on an island. No, that wasn’t true. He and Mozzie were fellow castaways on this island, and for once, he was appreciative to have the little guy around.

      Peter knew the dark of night was not the time to examine his worries. It seemed true that everything always looked bleaker in the gloom. Maybe he was just overly tired from the stress and the long vigils. Without thinking, he reached out a tentative hand and wrapped it around Neal’s wrist while stroking his thumb over the back of his partner’s hand. This was the first time in weeks, Peter realized, that he had actually touched the young man. In days gone by, it was just natural for him to clap Neal on the shoulder and squeeze or put his hand on the small of his back. Now it felt right, so Peter held on tight as he slouched down in the recliner stationed next to the bed. It wasn’t long before he dozed off.

      He wasn’t really sure at first what had awakened him, but then Peter realized that Neal was trying to pull his arm from Peter’s grip. Peter bolted upright and grabbed Neal’s hand again. “Neal, Neal” he said frantically. “Come on, buddy, open your eyes and look at me. Come on, Neal, please wake up!”

Chapter Text

      Neal continued to move his limbs slowly, but the motion seemed aimless and uncoordinated. After a few moments, he stilled and it was as if Peter had dreamed it. Peter stuck his head outside of the door and asked Neal’s nurse to please come in and check on her patient. Peter explained about the movement but lack of response from Neal.

     “I was watching Neal’s monitor on the remote screen at my desk outside,” she said. “I did notice a small spike in his heart rate just before you came out to get me. More than likely, his coma is lightening and, hopefully, he is trying to wake up. Just be patient, Agent Burke. This could be a long process.”

     What she didn’t say, thought Peter, is just how Neal would wake up. Would he be the same human being that he was four days ago, or just a shell of that brilliant and exuberant entity who swept through life like a whirlwind?

     Peter told Mozzie about the recent occurrence, but of course, Neal did not repeat his performance for him. He waited until later in the day when only Peter was in the room to suddenly start turning his head from side to side and making indistinct sounds. At first, Peter could not make out what, if anything, Neal was murmuring. Then the sounds became clearer……Neal was calling for Mozzie. Peter was simultaneously elated that Neal was speaking, but utterly devastated that Neal was not calling for him. “God,” he thought to himself, “I’m like a school girl with an unrequited crush.”

     Peter hurried to the waiting room to find Mozzie, but apparently he was off on an expedition of his own throughout the hospital. So, Peter immediately went back to Neal’s room. Now he noticed that Neal’s eyes were open but unfocused when Peter stared into them.

     “Neal, Neal,” Peter pleaded. “Look at me; talk to me, buddy!”

     Neal just closed his eyes again and plaintively called for Mozzie once more.

     Peter felt like he wanted to jump out of his skin. It was the nurse who grounded him as he started to pace the small room. “Agent Burke, listen to me,” she said. “We have no idea where in time Neal’s mind may be. When people emerge from comas, it is a slow process and they have to catch up. While trying to tolerate the present, they may not be able to withstand reliving the recent trauma that brought them here. Sometimes the mind protects them by allowing them to re-visit a place in their past that was comforting to them and makes them feel safe.”

      Peter had to take the nurse’s word for this bit of insight, but it still hurt. He wanted to be as important in Neal’s life as Mozzie, but he may have destroyed any chance of that. And if Neal was stuck back in a distant memory, Peter knew there was a distinct possibility that it pre-dated their relationship. Neal had once told him that he met Mozzie when he first came to New York at age eighteen, so the little bald man had been part of almost half of Neal’s life.

      Eventually Mozzie returned from wherever his recent jaunt had taken him. Peter excitedly told him of the recent developments and of Neal calling for him. Mozzie just smiled serenely. Peter wondered if he had been off meditating somewhere to produce such calm.

      Then Mozzie reverted to his usual demeanor as he said to a sleeping Neal, “It’s time to get your butt in gear, mon frere. It’s really getting old having one-sided conversations, and you know how I hate hospitals. They’re virtual Petri dishes for germs. I’m definitely making them test you for MRSA and VRE before we leave!”

     After having said his piece, he proceeded to remove his glasses and polish them incessantly, a sure tell that he was emotional. Peter didn’t call him on it.

     Peter left the ICU and made the obligatory phone calls to his wife, June, and Hughes. He spared no details with Elizabeth regarding his feelings. She realized the hurt and reassured Peter that everything would soon sort itself out.

      That evening, Peter opted to take the night watch again with Neal. In truth, he never wanted to leave his side now that there was a chance that Neal might fully awaken. As keyed up as he was, he never expected to nod off while upright in the hard chair, but, at some point his chin descended to his chest and awareness became fuzzy.

     Peter wasn’t sure what made him jerk awake; maybe it was the first signs of the morning sun peaking through the window, or maybe it was the aching crick in his neck. He blearily cracked his eyes open and began massaging his sore muscles. When he chanced a look at Neal, he became instantly alert because Neal’s clear blue eyes were focused on him. A tiny dimple appeared at the side of Neal’s mouth as he whispered, “Hi, Peter.”

     “Neal!” Peter breathed out his partner’s name. “You’re awake.”

     “I think it might have been the snoring that woke me,” Neal said softly.

     Peter just stared. Everything that he thought he would say froze on his lips. Instead, tears welled up in his eyes which made Neal frown and ask fearfully, “What’s wrong, Peter?”

     “Nothing’s wrong, Neal. It’s just been so long and I was really worried about you,” Peter answered.

     “How long?” Neal asked, his brow creased in frustration.

     “Four days, Neal, four long, long days,” said Peter. “You fell and got hurt, but you’re in the hospital now and you’re going to be alright.

     And I promise you, Neal, we’re going to be alright too!”