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elrhiarhodanTitle: The End of My Heart's Endeavor
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Clinton Jones, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey (deceased)
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: References to non-canonical death of canon characters, suicide.
Word Count: ~3600
Summary: Ends the story which began in Stepping Out Into Oblivion. Clinton brings Peter the news.
A/N: Title from “By Northern Light” from Oysterband’s “Shouting End of Life.” Fill for my Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card - Grief. Beta credit - The ever awesomerabidchild67. All mistakes are mine.
______________________
Clinton Jones had never expected to step into Peter’s shoes – at least not for another decade. But that’s what happened. The higher ups said not to get comfortable. This was only temporary until a more senior agent transferred in. What they meant was he was a place holder only until they could officially write off Peter Burke and his stellar career.
Word about Neal came early Wednesday morning, and Clinton, as Peter’s de facto replacement, was asked to make the identification. It was just a formality, but it had to be done.
The drive to the Lewisberg Penitentiary in central Pennsylvania was long, not because of the traffic, but for the task. He left at nine, and was there by noon. It took all of ten minutes to do what he’d been asked. Clinton wanted to rage – the body in the prison morgue was once his friend. His comrade, someone he trusted to have his back and someone he’d have taken a bullet for.
Someone who had lied to him every damn day. And someone he’d miss for the rest of his life.
The drive back was longer. The warden gave him the papers Neal had left behind, the ones addressed to Peter. Clinton had been surprised that they let him take the originals, but apparently no crime had been committed. There was no reason for the prison to keep them. Neal’s personal effects would packed and be released when his body was claimed.
Instead of going back into the office, he headed out to Brooklyn.
He had to deliver the news.
****
Peter was working in the backyard, raking up the leaves. In mid-October, it was a pointless task. The trees were still half dressed, and he’d have to rake the postage-sized yard two or three more times before all the leaves were gone. But it really didn’t matter - he had all the time in the world now. He was still drawing a paycheck, but he wasn’t allowed to go into the office. He had his badge and gun but couldn’t use them. They called it administrative leave instead of a suspension. It saved his record but stained his soul.
In a little less than two months, he’d have his twenty, a letter of commendation from the Director and the President, and a notice of separation detailing his pension rights. He leaned on the rake and sighed. He never thought his career would end like this, a sub rosa disgrace.
But the truth was, he was far more bitter about the way the Bureau treated Diana than his own dismissal. She was following his orders, and hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, but management was looking for a scapegoat and they found it. Peter spoke with Diana a few times a week; he wanted her to appeal the dismissal, but she wasn’t interested. He planned to keep pushing - he still had friends in the upper echelons. Even if she didn’t get her badge back, he wanted her record cleared.
Peter raked and tried not to think about Neal. His heart still hurt. Six months and it hurt like he’d been shot yesterday. He didn’t have to wonder why he wasn’t fighting his forced retirement. Working without Neal was going to be unbearable. Knowing that everything between them had been a lie was worse.
He just stopped. Peter stood in the middle of the yard under a blue October sky and closed his eyes as memories, infinite as the leaves, drifted through his mind. No, their friendship wasn’t a lie. Despite the angry words he had thrown at Neal two days ago, six months ago, Peter knew that. Neal may have betrayed his trust, their working partnership, but not his friendship. Not until he was ripped apart. He and Moz did a fine job of drawing and quartering Neal - the two of them had played on his loyalties, tearing him past the breaking point.
Peter realized that he had never really trusted Neal as a friend; that some part within him was always looking for that betrayal. He had always been waiting for that first misstep, for the inevitable transgression. He played his cards close because he never saw Neal as anything but a cheat. What had he once said – “once a con, always a con.” He never believed Neal could change, he never showed that faith in him. He expected Neal to fail and he did. Spectacularly.
It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. A vicious cycle. The snake that consumes its own body.
He should go back, he should apologize. Maybe if he hadn’t been waiting for Neal to turn on him, Neal would have trusted him. He could have made things right - he could have fixed it so that Moz was never connected to the treasure. If he hadn’t accused, if he had asked. If he had given Neal a reason to talk to him, instead of hiding away.
If, if, if.
Peter wondered if it was possible to make things right. If he could talk to the U.S. Attorney. They recovered the treasure. The real perpetrator was dead. The Russian government was happy. Maybe they’d let Neal out after he served the balance of the four years he owed for the original bone-headed escape.
Not that he’d be able to work with Neal again - that part of their lives was over. But it seemed fundamentally unfair that Neal was going to spend the rest of his life in lock down for the crime of loyalty to the wrong person.
Maybe that was what hurt the most - that Neal valued Mozzie’s friendship over his. He had never been jealous of Neal’s friendship - he liked Moz. Respected him up to a point. But it was a bitter thing that Neal, who had told him he trusted him more than Moz, who had promised that he was done with running, had done just the opposite.
Maybe if you hadn’t failed him as a friend. Maybe if you didn’t accuse. Maybe …
Ifs and maybes. The two words that were going to haunt him forever. But he still could be a better friend, he could do what he could to mitigate the damage he was in some way responsible for. He had his badge for two more months. That time should count for something, right?
He put the rake away. The leaves could wait. He had phone calls to make.
****
Elizabeth made a cup of tea and pretended to take care of paperwork as she watched her husband’s futile efforts at yard work. Nothing was ever going to be the same. Peter wasn’t okay, as hard as he pretended to be.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have work. A half dozen companies made job offers already – everything from corporate security to insurance fraud to financial accounting. It was the loss of identity. Peter was a man made to save others. To rescue them. A damned Saint Bernard. Captain America. An FBI agent.
Stripping him of his authority, the humiliation of “administrative leave” was killing him. He put on a good face, smiled at her, called her hon and did everything she asked. In the past six months, there wasn’t a project left unfinished, a request unfulfilled. Hell, the dry cleaning was picked up, hung up and turned in like clockwork.
Elizabeth would hate Neal if she could. But she understood him, more than Peter did. She knew how conflicted he was, but she said nothing. She was a loyal wife. Maybe if she’d been a better friend, it wouldn’t have ended with Neal sitting on the floor of an empty storage unit with guns pointed at him and a life sentence hanging around his neck.
Satchmo barked just as the doorbell rang. She went to open the door. It was Jones.
“Mrs. Burke -- Elizabeth.” He nodded at her, his voice tense and she wondered what was wrong.
“You’re here to see Peter?” Of course he would be. But this didn’t look like a social call.
“He’s home?”
“Yeah, come on in. He’s just finishing up some yard work. I’ll get him for you.”
Jones’ timing was good. Peter was coming in from the back. There was a light in his eyes, the cloak of defeat that had been draped around him was gone. She didn’t know what happened in the back yard, but whatever it was, Elizabeth was relieved.
Peter smiled at his former agent. “Clinton, what brings you here?”
“Umm…” Jones seemed at a loss for words, or maybe he didn’t want to talk in front of her.
“Why don’t I just let you two talk?” She gathered up her papers – she could work just as easily from the office upstairs.
Clinton reached out. “No, Elizabeth…please stay.”
The smile faded and some of the shine went out of her husband’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Jones licked his lips. “I just came from Lewisberg. The penitentiary.”
****
The icy coldness of fear settled on him. “Clinton?”
The other man wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
He knew, he knew. “Neal?”
Jones nodded. “He’s dead.”
The words came to him as if from a great distance. He heard a quick intake of breath, a cry - no. Elizabeth’s? His own?
“When?”
“Monday night or early Tuesday morning.”
Peter was confused. “How did they get to him? He was in lockdown, solitary.” He was paralyzed by the images of Neal as other convicts took turns brutalizing him. “Who paid off the guards?”
“No one got to him, Peter. He hung himself.”
That was impossible. “No – no. I know Neal, and he wouldn’t do that. Someone must have gotten to him, made it look like a suicide.”
“Peter, I’m sorry. But it wasn’t an attack. He left you a note.”
Jones pulled something from his breast pocket and in a part of his brain that wasn’t screaming no, no, no, he noticed how Clinton’s hands were shaking.
The note was really a folded packet of papers a half-inch thick, with “For Peter Burke” scrawled on the top. “Neal left these on the table in his cell.”
Peter looked at it but he couldn’t bear to take it from Clinton, who just put it down on the counter. “Did you read them?”
The other man shook his head. “No, they were addressed to you. There was a note to the warden as well.”
Peter looked up, surprised. “Why would Neal write a suicide note to the warden?” The question was pointless, he realized.
But it wasn’t. “Neal left a request for the disposal of his body. He asked for cremation. He didn’t want to be buried on the penitentiary grounds.”
When Peter didn’t say anything, Jones added, “The warden said that he couldn’t accommodate the request, but if someone would pay, he’d have Neal…” Clinton paused, “his body taken to a mortuary facility in town and have the ashes delivered.”
Peter walked over to the couch and carefully sat down. Satchmo followed and rested his head on Peter’s knee. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. He tried to listen to Elizabeth’s conversation with Jones, but he couldn’t follow it. Then something occurred to him.
“Are you sure it’s Neal?”
“Yeah, Peter. I went there to identify him. It’s Neal. I wish it wasn’t, but it was Neal.”
El joined him on the couch. “Thank you, Clinton. Thank you for going there. Thank you for telling us.”
Peter dropped his face in his hands, he couldn’t say anything else. He heard Jones leave, the door shutting softly behind him.
El draped an arm around him and he turned to her, burying his face in her shoulders. He wanted to cry but he could barely breathe.
“I killed him, El. I killed him. I wouldn’t listen, I was so angry. So damn angry. He did this because I didn’t give him a choice. I went there to gloat. To tell him that his best friend was dead and all I could think of was how much I could make him hurt.”
Elizabeth didn’t say anything; she just ran a soothing hand down his back.
“I should have listened to him; I should have given him a chance to explain what happened.” He kept repeating those words, a mantra of the damned.
He sat there, huddled in his wife’s arms, but he didn’t cry.
El didn’t give him absolution, but she did give him strength. She pulled back and sat him up, like a broken doll. “We need to get Neal and bring him home.”
Neal.
“Hon?”
“We’ll have him buried in our plot. He needs to be with friends.”
Peter shook his head. “No, if Neal wanted to be cremated, we’ll respect his wishes.” He took a deep breath or tried to against the aching tightness in his chest. “We’ll go to Lewisberg tomorrow. I’ll take care of him.”
The way I should have cared for him when he was living.
Peter got up and went to the kitchen. The thick stack of folded papers was still on the counter, he didn’t know what to do.
“You need to read them, hon.” El joined him, tucking her head under his arm, seeking comfort in touch much in the way he just had.
“I know, I know.”
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
Peter looked at his wife, her entire being radiated grief and compassion. He shook his head. “I think I need to do this alone. When I’m done, I’ll let you read it. Okay?”
El nodded. Peter took the papers and went upstairs. He wanted the sanctuary of his bedroom, a place where Neal’s ghost wouldn’t haunt him. He sank down in the easy chair, throat dry, exhausted with grief, he turned the papers over and over in his hands, Neal’s elegant scrawl appearing and disappearing with each rotation. Peter took a deep breath and stopped.
He unfolded the pages – there must have been twenty sheets – and rifled through them. Almost all of the papers seemed to be lists. He’d look at those later. It was the letter he wanted.
Peter looked up blindly, the tears he couldn’t cry earlier were streaming down his face. Sick to his soul that Neal blamed only himself when he was equally at fault - or more.
He wiped at his face and continued reading.
When you told me that you smoked me out of my refuge at the Palazzo Sasso, I was so angry. I know it was an unreasonable thing. We really didn’t know each other and you were only doing your job. But still, it felt like a betrayal. My time there had been so golden, so perfect, maybe the happiest of my life.
You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about that since I’ve been here. But not in the way you’re thinking. I’m not making into to a prisoner’s dream of freedom.
No - I’ve been wondering if it was truly the best time of my life - if it really was that golden, that perfect. And then I remember that moment on the top of that U-boat when we could have been killed. I looked up and you were there - you stayed by me, you could have died but you stayed. You trusted me. With just a look, you all but told me you loved me, that I made you proud. Regardless of the mess that came afterwards, I think that was truly the most perfect moment of my life.
To know that I’ll never have that perfect moment with you again - that you’ll never be able to trust me, that I’ll never make you that proud again is the bitterest regret of all.
Here, at the end of everything, I’ve finally come to realize that you have been the father I should have had, and the brother I always wanted. You gave me everything and I turned my back on it, on you - over and over again.
I wish I was a better son, a better brother. I wish I hadn’t hurt you like this.
Neal
One last thought - Peter, if you ever go to Ravello, there is a small cove below the cliffs at the Palazzo Sasso. It’s mostly deserted at dawn, and if you go down there before the sun comes up, tell one of the gulls you remember me. They love to carry messages.
Peter dropped the pages to the floor. He was lost, utterly lost and he wondered if he’d ever find himself again. There was a sound from the doorway - it was Elizabeth.
“Can I come in?”
An odd thing to ask - this was her bedroom too. He nodded.
“Peter - I …”
“El - you don’t have to say anything.” He picked up the pages of Neal’s letter and handed them to her. He looked briefly at the other papers - the lists. He could see that they were in code, but he didn’t have the strength - or even the interest at this point - to try and figure it out. He suspected that these were the contents of his stash, that Neal had, in one final, quixotic gesture, given everything up. Once, it would have mattered, it would have made a difference.
Now, nothing did.
****
There was a sealed box in the corner of the wall safe in Peter and Elizabeth’s bedroom. It rested next to a sheaf of papers. That box and those papers remained undisturbed for almost a year, until Peter took just the box down and carefully packed it in a suitcase.
He hadn’t discussed this trip with Elizabeth, other than telling her where they were going. She knew enough not to ask why.
They got into Naples late in the evening, and took a car service to the hotel. Elizabeth collapsed into a dreamless sleep. Peter was too restless. He watched the progression of the moon across the sky, the stars’ glittering reflection in the placid waters of the Mediterranean and let himself remember. Promised himself not to forget.
The stars faded and the sky began to turn a pale yellow-gray that presaged dawn. Peter brushed a kiss across his sleeping wife’s lips and left the room. He made his way out of the hotel, down the stone steps that lead to a private cove.
The sun was breaking over the horizon as Peter walked across the rocky shore. He knelt at the water’s edge and opened the box he brought with him. It was a shock to realize how little there was left of Neal - a few ounces of fine gray powder. A handful, maybe two.
Peter tilted the box, pouring the ash into his hand. The tide was moving out and Peter let the ashes fall. They mixed with the spume and were pulled out to sea.
He let the water wash over his hands, taking the rest of the ashes away.
A seabird cried out and landed gracefully on a rock next to him. It cried out again and Peter was startled by its pale blue eyes.
The bird stilled and Peter said, “When you see him, tell him … I loved him.”
It seemed to nod, then took flight, disappearing into the rising sun.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanRating: R
Characters/Pairing: Clinton Jones, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey (deceased)
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: References to non-canonical death of canon characters, suicide.
Word Count: ~3600
Summary: Ends the story which began in Stepping Out Into Oblivion. Clinton brings Peter the news.
A/N: Title from “By Northern Light” from Oysterband’s “Shouting End of Life.” Fill for my Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card - Grief. Beta credit - The ever awesome
rabidchild67. All mistakes are mine.Clinton Jones had never expected to step into Peter’s shoes – at least not for another decade. But that’s what happened. The higher ups said not to get comfortable. This was only temporary until a more senior agent transferred in. What they meant was he was a place holder only until they could officially write off Peter Burke and his stellar career.
Word about Neal came early Wednesday morning, and Clinton, as Peter’s de facto replacement, was asked to make the identification. It was just a formality, but it had to be done.
The drive to the Lewisberg Penitentiary in central Pennsylvania was long, not because of the traffic, but for the task. He left at nine, and was there by noon. It took all of ten minutes to do what he’d been asked. Clinton wanted to rage – the body in the prison morgue was once his friend. His comrade, someone he trusted to have his back and someone he’d have taken a bullet for.
Someone who had lied to him every damn day. And someone he’d miss for the rest of his life.
The drive back was longer. The warden gave him the papers Neal had left behind, the ones addressed to Peter. Clinton had been surprised that they let him take the originals, but apparently no crime had been committed. There was no reason for the prison to keep them. Neal’s personal effects would packed and be released when his body was claimed.
Instead of going back into the office, he headed out to Brooklyn.
He had to deliver the news.
****
Peter was working in the backyard, raking up the leaves. In mid-October, it was a pointless task. The trees were still half dressed, and he’d have to rake the postage-sized yard two or three more times before all the leaves were gone. But it really didn’t matter - he had all the time in the world now. He was still drawing a paycheck, but he wasn’t allowed to go into the office. He had his badge and gun but couldn’t use them. They called it administrative leave instead of a suspension. It saved his record but stained his soul.
In a little less than two months, he’d have his twenty, a letter of commendation from the Director and the President, and a notice of separation detailing his pension rights. He leaned on the rake and sighed. He never thought his career would end like this, a sub rosa disgrace.
But the truth was, he was far more bitter about the way the Bureau treated Diana than his own dismissal. She was following his orders, and hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, but management was looking for a scapegoat and they found it. Peter spoke with Diana a few times a week; he wanted her to appeal the dismissal, but she wasn’t interested. He planned to keep pushing - he still had friends in the upper echelons. Even if she didn’t get her badge back, he wanted her record cleared.
Peter raked and tried not to think about Neal. His heart still hurt. Six months and it hurt like he’d been shot yesterday. He didn’t have to wonder why he wasn’t fighting his forced retirement. Working without Neal was going to be unbearable. Knowing that everything between them had been a lie was worse.
He just stopped. Peter stood in the middle of the yard under a blue October sky and closed his eyes as memories, infinite as the leaves, drifted through his mind. No, their friendship wasn’t a lie. Despite the angry words he had thrown at Neal two days ago, six months ago, Peter knew that. Neal may have betrayed his trust, their working partnership, but not his friendship. Not until he was ripped apart. He and Moz did a fine job of drawing and quartering Neal - the two of them had played on his loyalties, tearing him past the breaking point.
Peter realized that he had never really trusted Neal as a friend; that some part within him was always looking for that betrayal. He had always been waiting for that first misstep, for the inevitable transgression. He played his cards close because he never saw Neal as anything but a cheat. What had he once said – “once a con, always a con.” He never believed Neal could change, he never showed that faith in him. He expected Neal to fail and he did. Spectacularly.
It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. A vicious cycle. The snake that consumes its own body.
He should go back, he should apologize. Maybe if he hadn’t been waiting for Neal to turn on him, Neal would have trusted him. He could have made things right - he could have fixed it so that Moz was never connected to the treasure. If he hadn’t accused, if he had asked. If he had given Neal a reason to talk to him, instead of hiding away.
If, if, if.
Peter wondered if it was possible to make things right. If he could talk to the U.S. Attorney. They recovered the treasure. The real perpetrator was dead. The Russian government was happy. Maybe they’d let Neal out after he served the balance of the four years he owed for the original bone-headed escape.
Not that he’d be able to work with Neal again - that part of their lives was over. But it seemed fundamentally unfair that Neal was going to spend the rest of his life in lock down for the crime of loyalty to the wrong person.
Maybe that was what hurt the most - that Neal valued Mozzie’s friendship over his. He had never been jealous of Neal’s friendship - he liked Moz. Respected him up to a point. But it was a bitter thing that Neal, who had told him he trusted him more than Moz, who had promised that he was done with running, had done just the opposite.
Maybe if you hadn’t failed him as a friend. Maybe if you didn’t accuse. Maybe …
Ifs and maybes. The two words that were going to haunt him forever. But he still could be a better friend, he could do what he could to mitigate the damage he was in some way responsible for. He had his badge for two more months. That time should count for something, right?
He put the rake away. The leaves could wait. He had phone calls to make.
****
Elizabeth made a cup of tea and pretended to take care of paperwork as she watched her husband’s futile efforts at yard work. Nothing was ever going to be the same. Peter wasn’t okay, as hard as he pretended to be.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have work. A half dozen companies made job offers already – everything from corporate security to insurance fraud to financial accounting. It was the loss of identity. Peter was a man made to save others. To rescue them. A damned Saint Bernard. Captain America. An FBI agent.
Stripping him of his authority, the humiliation of “administrative leave” was killing him. He put on a good face, smiled at her, called her hon and did everything she asked. In the past six months, there wasn’t a project left unfinished, a request unfulfilled. Hell, the dry cleaning was picked up, hung up and turned in like clockwork.
Elizabeth would hate Neal if she could. But she understood him, more than Peter did. She knew how conflicted he was, but she said nothing. She was a loyal wife. Maybe if she’d been a better friend, it wouldn’t have ended with Neal sitting on the floor of an empty storage unit with guns pointed at him and a life sentence hanging around his neck.
Satchmo barked just as the doorbell rang. She went to open the door. It was Jones.
“Mrs. Burke -- Elizabeth.” He nodded at her, his voice tense and she wondered what was wrong.
“You’re here to see Peter?” Of course he would be. But this didn’t look like a social call.
“He’s home?”
“Yeah, come on in. He’s just finishing up some yard work. I’ll get him for you.”
Jones’ timing was good. Peter was coming in from the back. There was a light in his eyes, the cloak of defeat that had been draped around him was gone. She didn’t know what happened in the back yard, but whatever it was, Elizabeth was relieved.
Peter smiled at his former agent. “Clinton, what brings you here?”
“Umm…” Jones seemed at a loss for words, or maybe he didn’t want to talk in front of her.
“Why don’t I just let you two talk?” She gathered up her papers – she could work just as easily from the office upstairs.
Clinton reached out. “No, Elizabeth…please stay.”
The smile faded and some of the shine went out of her husband’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Jones licked his lips. “I just came from Lewisberg. The penitentiary.”
****
The icy coldness of fear settled on him. “Clinton?”
The other man wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
He knew, he knew. “Neal?”
Jones nodded. “He’s dead.”
The words came to him as if from a great distance. He heard a quick intake of breath, a cry - no. Elizabeth’s? His own?
“When?”
“Monday night or early Tuesday morning.”
Peter was confused. “How did they get to him? He was in lockdown, solitary.” He was paralyzed by the images of Neal as other convicts took turns brutalizing him. “Who paid off the guards?”
“No one got to him, Peter. He hung himself.”
That was impossible. “No – no. I know Neal, and he wouldn’t do that. Someone must have gotten to him, made it look like a suicide.”
“Peter, I’m sorry. But it wasn’t an attack. He left you a note.”
Jones pulled something from his breast pocket and in a part of his brain that wasn’t screaming no, no, no, he noticed how Clinton’s hands were shaking.
The note was really a folded packet of papers a half-inch thick, with “For Peter Burke” scrawled on the top. “Neal left these on the table in his cell.”
Peter looked at it but he couldn’t bear to take it from Clinton, who just put it down on the counter. “Did you read them?”
The other man shook his head. “No, they were addressed to you. There was a note to the warden as well.”
Peter looked up, surprised. “Why would Neal write a suicide note to the warden?” The question was pointless, he realized.
But it wasn’t. “Neal left a request for the disposal of his body. He asked for cremation. He didn’t want to be buried on the penitentiary grounds.”
When Peter didn’t say anything, Jones added, “The warden said that he couldn’t accommodate the request, but if someone would pay, he’d have Neal…” Clinton paused, “his body taken to a mortuary facility in town and have the ashes delivered.”
Peter walked over to the couch and carefully sat down. Satchmo followed and rested his head on Peter’s knee. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. He tried to listen to Elizabeth’s conversation with Jones, but he couldn’t follow it. Then something occurred to him.
“Are you sure it’s Neal?”
“Yeah, Peter. I went there to identify him. It’s Neal. I wish it wasn’t, but it was Neal.”
El joined him on the couch. “Thank you, Clinton. Thank you for going there. Thank you for telling us.”
Peter dropped his face in his hands, he couldn’t say anything else. He heard Jones leave, the door shutting softly behind him.
El draped an arm around him and he turned to her, burying his face in her shoulders. He wanted to cry but he could barely breathe.
“I killed him, El. I killed him. I wouldn’t listen, I was so angry. So damn angry. He did this because I didn’t give him a choice. I went there to gloat. To tell him that his best friend was dead and all I could think of was how much I could make him hurt.”
Elizabeth didn’t say anything; she just ran a soothing hand down his back.
“I should have listened to him; I should have given him a chance to explain what happened.” He kept repeating those words, a mantra of the damned.
He sat there, huddled in his wife’s arms, but he didn’t cry.
El didn’t give him absolution, but she did give him strength. She pulled back and sat him up, like a broken doll. “We need to get Neal and bring him home.”
Neal.
“Hon?”
“We’ll have him buried in our plot. He needs to be with friends.”
Peter shook his head. “No, if Neal wanted to be cremated, we’ll respect his wishes.” He took a deep breath or tried to against the aching tightness in his chest. “We’ll go to Lewisberg tomorrow. I’ll take care of him.”
The way I should have cared for him when he was living.
Peter got up and went to the kitchen. The thick stack of folded papers was still on the counter, he didn’t know what to do.
“You need to read them, hon.” El joined him, tucking her head under his arm, seeking comfort in touch much in the way he just had.
“I know, I know.”
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
Peter looked at his wife, her entire being radiated grief and compassion. He shook his head. “I think I need to do this alone. When I’m done, I’ll let you read it. Okay?”
El nodded. Peter took the papers and went upstairs. He wanted the sanctuary of his bedroom, a place where Neal’s ghost wouldn’t haunt him. He sank down in the easy chair, throat dry, exhausted with grief, he turned the papers over and over in his hands, Neal’s elegant scrawl appearing and disappearing with each rotation. Peter took a deep breath and stopped.
He unfolded the pages – there must have been twenty sheets – and rifled through them. Almost all of the papers seemed to be lists. He’d look at those later. It was the letter he wanted.
Dear Peter:
I am sorrier than you could ever know. And not because you caught me. I could have been long gone from that storage room by the time you caught up. I could have been anywhere else.
Even knowing that I’d be spending the rest of my life in prison, I didn’t want to run. Like I had told you that day, that other life, I was done with running. It wouldn’t have been freedom. Despite everything, I didn’t want to go, I didn’t want to run.
I never did. I thought there was still a chance to make things right. That I could stay.
I am sorry for betraying you, our partnership, the trust you placed in me. I was sorry the moment I found out that Moz had stolen the treasure from Adler. I was sorry that I didn’t say anything, sorry that I didn’t really try to break through your anger. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry – what a simple word.
What a stupid word.
At first, I didn’t say anything about the treasure because I was furious at you. You blamed me for something I knew nothing about. You seemed so vindicated in your anger. That all I’d ever be was a liar and a thief.
And I think I set out to do everything I could to prove you right. I used your friendship - abused it maybe - to keep you from finding out what Moz had done, what we were planning to do.
From the first, you gave me every chance. Remember? Justice, not revenge. Be a man, not a con. You were always very clear. No ambiguity with you. No gray areas. But I didn’t even try. I always figured – one more shot, one more time. It’s for the greater good.
It helps to be able to move in the shadows.
But it didn’t, did it?
And so I end up back here, back where I probably would always wind up. Born bad, stayed bad, will die bad.
Do you know what the con man’s maxim is? “Don’t live your life in vain regrets, so take what you want now, because it won’t be there tomorrow.” All I’ve ever done is take, and yet my life is full of vain regrets. I don’t even know if there is enough time on earth to list them all.
I am sorrier than you could ever know. And not because you caught me. I could have been long gone from that storage room by the time you caught up. I could have been anywhere else.
Even knowing that I’d be spending the rest of my life in prison, I didn’t want to run. Like I had told you that day, that other life, I was done with running. It wouldn’t have been freedom. Despite everything, I didn’t want to go, I didn’t want to run.
I never did. I thought there was still a chance to make things right. That I could stay.
I am sorry for betraying you, our partnership, the trust you placed in me. I was sorry the moment I found out that Moz had stolen the treasure from Adler. I was sorry that I didn’t say anything, sorry that I didn’t really try to break through your anger. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry – what a simple word.
What a stupid word.
At first, I didn’t say anything about the treasure because I was furious at you. You blamed me for something I knew nothing about. You seemed so vindicated in your anger. That all I’d ever be was a liar and a thief.
And I think I set out to do everything I could to prove you right. I used your friendship - abused it maybe - to keep you from finding out what Moz had done, what we were planning to do.
From the first, you gave me every chance. Remember? Justice, not revenge. Be a man, not a con. You were always very clear. No ambiguity with you. No gray areas. But I didn’t even try. I always figured – one more shot, one more time. It’s for the greater good.
It helps to be able to move in the shadows.
But it didn’t, did it?
And so I end up back here, back where I probably would always wind up. Born bad, stayed bad, will die bad.
Do you know what the con man’s maxim is? “Don’t live your life in vain regrets, so take what you want now, because it won’t be there tomorrow.” All I’ve ever done is take, and yet my life is full of vain regrets. I don’t even know if there is enough time on earth to list them all.
Peter looked up blindly, the tears he couldn’t cry earlier were streaming down his face. Sick to his soul that Neal blamed only himself when he was equally at fault - or more.
He wiped at his face and continued reading.
When you told me that you smoked me out of my refuge at the Palazzo Sasso, I was so angry. I know it was an unreasonable thing. We really didn’t know each other and you were only doing your job. But still, it felt like a betrayal. My time there had been so golden, so perfect, maybe the happiest of my life.
You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about that since I’ve been here. But not in the way you’re thinking. I’m not making into to a prisoner’s dream of freedom.
No - I’ve been wondering if it was truly the best time of my life - if it really was that golden, that perfect. And then I remember that moment on the top of that U-boat when we could have been killed. I looked up and you were there - you stayed by me, you could have died but you stayed. You trusted me. With just a look, you all but told me you loved me, that I made you proud. Regardless of the mess that came afterwards, I think that was truly the most perfect moment of my life.
To know that I’ll never have that perfect moment with you again - that you’ll never be able to trust me, that I’ll never make you that proud again is the bitterest regret of all.
Here, at the end of everything, I’ve finally come to realize that you have been the father I should have had, and the brother I always wanted. You gave me everything and I turned my back on it, on you - over and over again.
I wish I was a better son, a better brother. I wish I hadn’t hurt you like this.
Neal
One last thought - Peter, if you ever go to Ravello, there is a small cove below the cliffs at the Palazzo Sasso. It’s mostly deserted at dawn, and if you go down there before the sun comes up, tell one of the gulls you remember me. They love to carry messages.
Peter dropped the pages to the floor. He was lost, utterly lost and he wondered if he’d ever find himself again. There was a sound from the doorway - it was Elizabeth.
“Can I come in?”
An odd thing to ask - this was her bedroom too. He nodded.
“Peter - I …”
“El - you don’t have to say anything.” He picked up the pages of Neal’s letter and handed them to her. He looked briefly at the other papers - the lists. He could see that they were in code, but he didn’t have the strength - or even the interest at this point - to try and figure it out. He suspected that these were the contents of his stash, that Neal had, in one final, quixotic gesture, given everything up. Once, it would have mattered, it would have made a difference.
Now, nothing did.
****
There was a sealed box in the corner of the wall safe in Peter and Elizabeth’s bedroom. It rested next to a sheaf of papers. That box and those papers remained undisturbed for almost a year, until Peter took just the box down and carefully packed it in a suitcase.
He hadn’t discussed this trip with Elizabeth, other than telling her where they were going. She knew enough not to ask why.
They got into Naples late in the evening, and took a car service to the hotel. Elizabeth collapsed into a dreamless sleep. Peter was too restless. He watched the progression of the moon across the sky, the stars’ glittering reflection in the placid waters of the Mediterranean and let himself remember. Promised himself not to forget.
The stars faded and the sky began to turn a pale yellow-gray that presaged dawn. Peter brushed a kiss across his sleeping wife’s lips and left the room. He made his way out of the hotel, down the stone steps that lead to a private cove.
The sun was breaking over the horizon as Peter walked across the rocky shore. He knelt at the water’s edge and opened the box he brought with him. It was a shock to realize how little there was left of Neal - a few ounces of fine gray powder. A handful, maybe two.
Peter tilted the box, pouring the ash into his hand. The tide was moving out and Peter let the ashes fall. They mixed with the spume and were pulled out to sea.
He let the water wash over his hands, taking the rest of the ashes away.
A seabird cried out and landed gracefully on a rock next to him. It cried out again and Peter was startled by its pale blue eyes.
The bird stilled and Peter said, “When you see him, tell him … I loved him.”
It seemed to nod, then took flight, disappearing into the rising sun.
