Chapter Seventy-One

"Are you sure it can't be traced?" Neal knew how irritating it was to have someone looking over your shoulder while you worked but he couldn't help himself. "I don't want-" The look Mozzie sent him stopped him mid-sentence. "Sorry."

No one was better at playing a shell game with funds than Mozzie, but Neal was still nervous. This wasn't their usual sell of goods and transfer of funds. There was a lot more at stake. Peter had put his career on the line for him, and he didn't want anything he did now to jeopardize him or his career.

"To date," Mozzie informed him as his fingers resumed flying across the keyboard. "I have never been traced. And per your paranoia," Being called paranoid by Mozzie truly stung, "I've doubled my usual doubled security measures. It. Will. Not. Be. Traced."

"Sorry, Moz," he said. "I just don't want any of this coming back on Peter."

Again, the look Mozzie sent was scorching. "How about back on you?" he asked. "Or me? You know I liked this better when we were splitting it with the kid."

The It was the three hundred and twenty thousand Mozzie had gotten for the diamond Neal had plucked from the red velvet cloth he'd taken from safe hidden behind the Boswaninan Painting in the Dadford Diamond Exchange Office. Initially, after giving Moz his standard fee, he'd planned to split the remainder with Andrew-it seemed only fair-but now he had other plans for it.

"Andrew is entitled to compensation," Neal told him. "It's number five on the Victims' Bill of Rights."

"Entitled is not the same as guaranteed," Mozzie huffed. "And giving this kind of money to your kidnapper is just plain crazy."

The man who'd kidnapped him was Kenneth Riley Mason, a resident of Brooklyn, who until now, had never had any run-ins with the law. Neal had learned this much before Peter called to tell him he'd been arrested. Neal hadn't been pleased to hear the news; he'd secretly hoped the man would get away but no one knew better than he how hard it was to outrun the FBI. Peter informed him that the NYPD needed him to make a positive identification and an hour and a half later, he was viewing a line up through the one-way glass. Ken looked tired and worse, despondent. Neal hated to but he did what he was asked and provided the necessary identification.

It was afterward while waiting for Peter to finish talking with the Seargent and take him home, that he'd heard two officers discussing Mason's arrest. He could tell the men sympathized with the suspect and it didn't take him long to understand why. Mason hadn't even tried to run away. His wife was seriously ill and having learned this the NYPD had staked out the hospital where she was a patient. When Mason had shown up to see her, they were waiting for him. It was sad, one of them said, that a law-abiding citizen had resorted to crime because his insurance was refusing to pay for his wife's treatments.

Neal had picked up early that Ken wasn't like Maxwell or Eden; he didn't enjoy violence or seem like a greedy man. Neal guessed he'd taken the job because he had to; for some reason, he was in desperate need of cash. The most common reason for such a move was that he was into a bookie for a substantial amount and payment was due. When faced with the type of ultimatum that often accompanied such debt collection, even a decent man could be driven to indecent acts. It was a matter of survival and Neal understood. But then he overheard the officers and realized Mason hadn't been trying to save his own life, he'd been trying to save his wife's.

He asked Peter if he'd known about Mason's situation and that the NYPD had staked out the hospital and he'd admitted that he had. The idea that the police had used the man's sick wife to trap him made Neal angry but he didn't say anything; he knew that was the way the police worked. Even Peter, on occasion, could justify using any means necessary to make an arrest. Sensing his disapproval, Peter had reminded him that regardless of Mason's reasons, he'd still committed very serious crimes and would have to pay for them. However, he added, with a good lawyer pointing out the extenuating circumstances and the fact that he'd provided the tip that lead to Eden's capture, the court might exercise some leniency. Instead of twenty years, he might get ten and, with good behavior, be out in five.

That wasn't a bad deal, but Mason didn't have the money for a good lawyer, and without treatment, his wife didn't have five years. Neal knew what he had to do; there really was no question. Except from Mozzie, of course, who'd had lots of them; You want me to do what? Why? and Are you crazy?

"I asked him to help me, and he did, Moz," Neal explained yet again. "If he hadn't made that call, I'd be dead right now. I think this is the least I can do for him."

"The least you could do was cover his wife's treatment," Mozzie told him. "Which you have. Hiring a six-figure ambulance chaser to represent him is way above that."

"You sure he's good?" Neal asked, again looking over his friend's shoulder. He'd relied on Mozzie to find the right man for the job. Mason needed better than good; he needed a miracle worker.

"Trust me," Mozzie replied. "He's the best our money can buy."

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"All I know is that yesterday he had a public defender and today he went before the judge with an attorney who I'm told charges ten thousand just to take a case."

Agent Littleton was sitting across from Peter's desk, giving his update in person this time as opposed to by telephone. It was Friday afternoon, and he'd just come back from Kenneth Mason's first court appearance.

"How did he manage that?" Peter asked but feared he knew the answer already.

"I don't think he did," he replied, leaning back in his chair. "He was as surprised when the man showed up and announced he was representing him as we were." Agent Littleton didn't sound angry; he just sounded curious. "The lawyer claimed he'd been retained on his client's behalf by an anonymous third party."

Peter had a good idea who that anonymous third party had been. Neal.

Ever since he'd heard about the discrepancy between the number of diamonds that had allegedly been in the Danford safe and the number that had been recovered at the Hanger, Peter had had his suspicions that Neal was the one behind the missing diamond. It hadn't been on his person when he'd been taken to the hospital so he must have stashed it somewhere, either at the Danford building itself or in the warehouse. Later, Peter theorized, he'd told Mozzie where to find it. That would account for the Mission Accomplished message he'd seen on Neal's phone. But apparently not only had Mozzie retrieved it, he'd also used his contacts to turn it into cash. It's estimated value according to the Danford Diamond Exchange was about four hundred thousand dollars; more than enough to hire a high priced attorney to represent Kenneth Mason.

"A very generous third party," he remarked. Neal was probably the most generous criminal he'd ever met. "I guess it must be Mason's lucky day."

"Oh that's just the beginning," the Agent replied. "You know the treatment his wife needs? The one insurance won't pay for? I found out on my way over here that it's been paid for as well."

Any doubt Peter had had about who Mason's mysterious benefactor was faded completely.

"Let me guess," he stated. "By an anonymous third party."

The agent nodded. "And just like the with legal fees, everything was done by wire transfer this morning. Seems there's someone looking out for him; and his wife."

Peter didn't like the inquisitive look in the agent's eyes. Littleton was a smart man and he'd met Neal Caffrey; that could add up to trouble.

"Any idea who?" Peter asked as innocently as he could manage. "Or why?"

"Not yet," Agent Littleton replied, holding his gaze steadily. "But the prosecutor thinks it's related to the missing diamond; that Mason gave it to someone who was able to use it to generate some cash."

"Not a bad theory," Peter noted, "but hard to substantiate. Are you tracing the funds?"

Agent Littleton told him there was an effort underway. The prosecutor had asked the attorney for access to his accounts to backtrace the transfer, but of course, the attorney had denied his request. That wasn't surprising; no attorney would willingly allow a federal prosecutor access to his finances, and if the man was as good as his fees suggested, there was little use trying to force the issue. But Agent Littleton expected the hospital would be more cooperative. It was possible, using their accounts, they'd be able to trace the money back to its source.

Not if Mozzie had handled the transfers, Peter thought to himself. After all, he took security seriously.

Not wanting to spend any more time on the subject of missing diamonds and wire transfers, Peter asked about the hearing. Littleton told him Mason had plead not guilty and, like the others had been remanded to custody. That, however, could change. His attorney had asked the judge to impose house arrest with an electronic ankle monitor in lieu of incarceration. The judge had agreed to consider the request and was to make a decision before the end of the day.

"I'm surprised he's even considering it," Peter remarked. Pre-trial house arrest was usually only an option for non-violent offenders. "Mason is charged with two counts of felony kidnapping."

"I know," Agent Littleton agreed. "But his lawyer pointed out that he has no criminal record, his wife is undergoing cancer treatment, and he is her only support. I think there's a good chance the judge will grant his request."

A public defender wouldn't get that ruling because a public defender would never have asked for it.

"Well, next week is Thanksgiving," Peter noted with a shrug. "It wouldn't bother me if Mason got to spend it with his wife."

"How about Caffrey?" The agent asked, searching his eyes thoughtfully. "Think he'll have a problem with it?"

It had definitely occurred to the agent Neal might be the one behind Mason's sudden shift in circumstances. Again, a good theory but hard to substantiate.

"I doubt it," Peter replied with feigned nonchalance. "The man did help save his life, but you can ask him. You still plan to see him before you head back?"

"Yeah," the agent confirmed, getting to his feet. "I talked to him this morning. I'm stopping by his apartment on my way to the airport." Neal had better be careful, Peter thought. Agent Littleton didn't miss much. "My flight leaves at 6:14 so I better get moving." The agent extended his hand. "Happy Thanksgiving, Agent Burke," he said. "And give my regards Mrs. Burke."

"Thank you and I will," Peter said, giving the hand a firm shake. "When will you be back in New York?"

"Not until the trial," Littleton answered, releasing his grip. "Agent Abernathy will be handling things here; I have work to do in Chicago."

"I understand," Peter replied. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Agent Littleton; you've given me a whole new respect for CyberCrimes."

The agent slung his backpack over his shoulder. "That's what I like to hear, Agent Burke."

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Neal wasn't sure if it was fear or excitement causing the tremor in his hands as he knotted the thin black tie. Until now, he'd only felt this level of anticipation mixed with dread before a particularly difficult job; one in which there was at least as much chance of failure as success. He glanced at his watch; the taxi would be arriving in fifteen minutes.

He'd chosen to wear the Devore, his favorite suit, in hopes of feeling more prepared to face whatever lay ahead. Looking in the mirror, he made a final adjustment to his tie, then placed his hat on his head. It wasn't his favorite hat-that one hadn't been returned to him-but it was his second favorite and completed the outfit nicely. He stepped back and surveyed his reflection in the mirror.

His face was back to its pristine appearance; the bruises were gone, the dark circles under his eyes had faded, and his skin had regained a healthy tone. He looked like Neal Caffrey again; well groomed, impeccably dressed, confident and perfectly composed.

But his composure was only skin deep; on the inside, it was a different story. He didn't understand why he was so nervous. It wasn't like he was breaking into the Louvre or scaling the walls of a Moroccan Villa on a damp night.

He was going to dinner at the Burke's.

"It's just dinner," he told his reflection. "It's no big deal."

But it wasn't just dinner, it was Thanksgiving Dinner, and it was a big deal.

Being a part of a family, feeling a sense of welcome and belonging was something he'd longed for all his life. Growing up, it had just been he and his mother. She hadn't been interested in family events or traditions. Looking back, it made more sense now than it had then. She always told him she was picking up extra shifts during the holidays but he wasn't sure that was the case. Whether she was at work or somewhere else, the result was the same. More often than not he spent the days alone, eating whatever he could find and watching movies on the small television that depicted families coming together for the holidays. Occasionally, especially when they were living in an apartment, he'd find himself at a neighbors table for dinner. But no matter how hard they tried to make him feel welcome, he never did. He saw the knowing glances that passed between the adults, knew he'd been asked in out of pity. He'd learned that feeling alone surrounded by people was far worse than just being alone. At the end of those meals, even though his stomach was full, his life and his heart had felt emptier than ever.

Maybe that was why he was so out of sorts; this was uncharted territory. He'd never been part of a real Thanksgiving Dinner before. Just being included in the Burke breakfast routine had almost overwhelmed him; how was he supposed to keep himself together in the face of something of this magnitude?

"Neal," June called from the bottom of the staircase. "Are you ready, dear? Our taxi is here."

Ready or not, the time had come. He took a deep breath. I can do this.

"I'll be right down," he responded. He exited the bedroom, took his overcoat from the hook by the door and slipped it on. He picked up the gifts he'd purchased for the host and hostess from his dining table; a six-pack of Peter's favorite beer for the game and a small, fresh herbal bouquet for Elizabeth.

June was bringing a dessert; Mozzie was supplying the wine.

It was Thanksgiving, and he'd be spending it with people he cared about and that he knew cared about him; Peter, Elizabeth, June, and Mozzie. After all this time, he'd found a family. A place he belonged.

He had a lot to be thankful for, and it was the perfect day to realize it.

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Everything had been going well. Dinner, of course, was excellent and was winding down. Main dishes completed, El had brought out an assortment of desserts, Mozzie had opened a bottle of French Dessert Wine, went on like the Wine Spectator about its virtues, and poured them each a generous glass. The conversation was flowing as freely as the wine and everyone, even Mozzie, seemed to generally be enjoying themselves. Then suddenly Neal rose from the table.

"Excuse me." His face was flushed. "I need to get some air." Less than three seconds later he was out the back door. It happened so quickly, so without warning, that no one had a chance to respond. Mozzie was the first to speak.

"I'm sure he's fine," he said, looking from June to Elizabeth; one worried face to another. "All this domiciliary discussion probably make him claustrophobic."

"Peter-" Elizabeth started to speak just as he scooted back his chair.

"I'm on it," he said, getting up from the table.

Instead of following Neal out the kitchen door, Peter went into the living room. The temperature had barely reached fifty and by now would have fallen several degrees. Neal's thin shirt and jacket would be little protection against the cold. He took his coat off the rack by the door and put it on, then grabbed Neal's overcoat.

"Don't worry," he said as he passed through the dining room. "Finish your pie. We won't be long."

He was glad he'd put on his coat and that he'd brought Neal one; the breeze stirring the fallen leaves on the patio made the night air even colder. Neal hadn't gone far. He was leaning on the low wall that separated the patio from the backyard, his back to the house. Peter knew he heard the door close but he didn't turn to see who'd followed him. He just stood still, gazing into the darkness. He had to be cold but for whatever reason, he'd chosen to be out here instead of inside. Peter hesitated only a moment before walking over to join him in his vigil by the wall.

"You alright?" When he didn't answer, Peter's concern grew. "Neal?"

Neal seemed startled by his appearance; maybe he hadn't heard the door. He'd been lost in thought. Whatever had driven him from the warmth of the house had completely occupied his thoughts. Hearing Peter's voice, he'd quickly wiped his cheeks, indicating to Peter that he was definitely not alright.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked anyway.

"Yeah," Neal answered, again turning his eyes in the direction of Peter's less-than-tidy backyard. "I just needed to clear my head, that's all."

"Well, you got out of there pretty fast," Peter remarked, handing Neal his coat. "So I told the ladies I'd come out and make sure you were alright."

He expected an I'm fine or some similar proclamation, but it didn't come. Instead, Neal took the coat and offered a quiet word of gratitude. "Thanks, Peter."

Peter took the absence of Neal's stock response as a go-ahead to make further inquiries.

"So what's up?" he asked as Neal slipped into his coat. "Why the sudden need to clear your head?"

Neal didn't immediately answer his question. "I don't know," he said, pulling the coat tightly around his thin frame. "I was sitting there, listening to you and June talk football and Mozzie explaining to Elizabeth the difference between Sauternes with a capital S and sauterne with a small s and I just..."

He stopped; now that he was facing the house, the warm glow of the windows illuminated the thoughtful look on his face.

"You just what?" Peter prompted.

"I just realized how perfect the moment was," he admitted quietly, meeting Peter's eyes. "Actually, how perfect the whole day had been. I guess it kind of freaked me out."

Peter interpreted freaked me out to mean overwhelmed me with emotion; Neal had rushed out into thirty-degree temperatures because he'd been about to cry. He'd needed a moment to pull himself together, or, as he had put it, to clear his head.

"I think what you were feeling is gratitude," Peter ventured. "That's what Thanksgiving is all about, Neal. Being thankful for our friends, our family, and all the perfect, and even the not-so-perfect, moments we share."

Neal nodded. "It's just that I've never had a day like this before, Peter. But I've always wanted one."

Again, the memories of the holidays he's spent with his family came to Peter's mind, and again, he realized how lucky he'd been.

"So you've really never had a family Thanksgiving," he asked, searching Neal's eyes in the dim light. "Even as a kid?"

Neal looked away at the question, and Peter realized he'd been out of bounds; he was about to apologize when Neal spoke.

"It was just me and my mom." Peter, surprised that Neal had chosen to answer, waited for more. "We moved around a lot," he continued, meeting Peter's eyes briefly, "so we never knew many people." His eyes had settled on the house, where the muffled sound of conversation could still be heard. "She always worked the Holidays, at least she said she did, and I stayed home by myself."

Peter had wanted more pieces to the puzzle, more insight into who Neal, or rather Danny, had been and now he had them. It was just a brief glimpse into his childhood but it gave a wealth of information. There had been no father in the picture, just as Elizabeth had surmised, nor any siblings or extended family. Had there been a family dispute? An abusive boyfriend or husband to run from? Had his mother struggled with drugs or alcohol? For whatever reason, she and her son had lived a transient life, which, for Neal, meant frequently changing homes, neighborhoods, and schools. He'd never known consistency or even security and he hadn't seemed to be a priority to his mother. From the sound of it, Neal had pretty much been left to his own devices even as a child.

Peter was glad to know more about Neal's past, but he was more pleased that Neal had chosen to share it. Elizabeth had told him all he had to do was be available, and, in time, Neal would open up. Of course, as usual, she was right.

"Well, that's not going to be the case anymore," Peter said, putting his arm around the young man's shoulders. "From now on, you have a standing invitation to all Burke Family holidays. Easter, the Fourth of July cookout, bring more of that beer," he added with a grin, "Thanksgiving Dinner and Christmas. It's time you start some traditions of your own."

"I don't know much about traditions," Neal admitted. "Just what I've seen in the movies."

"Don't worry about it, Neal," Peter said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. "El and I will make you an expert."

The End

I couldn't quite get it wrapped up by Thanksgiving Day, but it was close. Originally, this story (all twelve chapters) was supposed to wrap up on Thanksgiving of 2016, but as you know, things didn't go according to my outline. I could literally write this story for the rest of my life, exploring the details of Neal's childhood and letting Peter learned to be patient, and Neal learn to trust, but it must end here, leaving each of you to finish it in your own way. Thank you to all who have faithfully followed this story for so long, posted reviews and sent encouraging messages to my inbox. I won't name names (two of you are just Guests), but there are nine of you who have been my inspiration and kept me chugging along when I truly felt like giving up.

Now, if you've read this story to its completion, please just leave a word and let me know. Happy Thanksgiving to you all.