elrhiarhodan

Title: We Shall Come Home - Chapter III
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing/Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Mozzie, Satchmo, plus other characters.
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Word Count: ~3200 (this chapter) ~61,000 (total)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Summary: Transformed beyond recognition, beyond comprehension, Peter and Neal are lost in the woods and desperately try to get home. A tale of friendship, sacrifice, loss and ultimately, of love. Night falls, evidence is examined and no one has any answers.

We Shall Come Home is not a work in progress. New chapters will be posted once a week, on Tuesdays. Chapter Two
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Wednesday Night

IT WAS COLD AND DARK INSIDE HER HOUSE, EVEN WITH EVERY LIGHT ON. Without Peter, the house was just that, a building. Four walls, rooms and some furnishings. Satchmo was on the couch with her, his head on her lap, his body shivering. She dialed Peter’s cell phones every ten minutes, hoping for an answer. She had stopped trying to reach Neal hours ago. Diana wasn’t picking up, and neither was Jones. When she tried to speak with Reese Hughes, all she got was that he was unavailable for the rest of the day. At this moment, Elizabeth actively, passionately despised the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation, and particularly Peter’s supposedly loyal staff.

It was after 9 p.m., she hadn’t heard a word from her husband in nearly twelve hours, and it was over six hours since she had spoken with Diana. Diana, who ended their phone call with “that’s strange” and nothing more. She dialed Peter’s cell phone again, and again, and again, and was ready to throw the phone across the room in frustration. Instead, she carefully placed it back on the cradle and stroked Satchmo’s head until he whimpered.

Elizabeth had no idea how long she had been sitting on her couch, staring into space, when the doorbell rang. She closed her eyes against the sick dread. Satchmo lumbered off the couch and went to the door to greet the visitor. She slowly followed, her footsteps leaden.

It was Reese Hughes, alone.

Elizabeth didn’t want to let him in, as if keeping him outside would keep the bad news at bay.

She opened the door.

“Elizabeth.”

“Reese.”

“May I come in?”

“Please do.” Elizabeth stepped aside and let him come into the living room. Some crazy, insane, hysterical part of her brain thought that if Hughes were a vampire, she would have just given him the ability to take up housekeeping here. She didn’t offer him coffee or water or anything.

“Where’s Peter? What’s happened to my husband?”

“Elizabeth…”

“Damn it, Reese. I called Diana six hours ago, and she hasn’t gotten back to me. I haven’t heard a word from anyone. Please, tell me. Where is my husband?” She grabbed his jacket, as if to shake an answer out of him.

Hughes steered her towards the couch and sat her down, holding her small cold hands between his own larger and even colder ones.

“Elizabeth, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Peter – Peter and Neal are missing.”

She was silent for the space of a few heartbeats. “What do you mean, missing?” Her voice was ice cold.

In very few words, Reese told her about how they found Peter’s motor pool car abandoned beside the carcass of a large deer, and that there was no sign of either Neal or Peter. She watched the man’s eyes, which rarely met hers. He was hiding something big.

“Reese, that might do for a press conference, but I want the whole story. Don’t you dare leave anything out. This is my husband you are talking about.”

So she listened, by turns horrified and incredulous.

“You think that someone, or a number of someones, overpowered both Peter and Neal, tore their clothes off and kidnapped them?”

“That’s what it looks like. But there was no blood, it doesn’t appear that either Peter or Neal was badly injured when they were taken.”

“What about Neal’s tracker?” Elizabeth felt like Reese was still hiding something, and given his reluctance to respond, it seemed that this was it.

Hughes scrubbed at his face and she wanted to shake him. “Reese, please.”

“Caffrey’s tracker was found at the scene. It was intact and still transmitting.”

“What?”

“Neal Caffrey’s tracking anklet was locked and fully functioning. There was no sign of tampering. It was as if it fell off his foot.” Hughes didn’t want to reveal how strange the actual positioning of the anklet was, caught up in Neal’s sock and shoe. Peter’s wife didn’t need to know that. “That was how we knew there was something wrong. When you called Diana and she checked Neal’s tracking data, it showed that his unit hadn’t moved in five hours. Given the level of sensitivity of the device, that was big red flag.”

“Don’t the Marshals let you know about anomalies like that?”

“Yes, and even though Neal was on monitoring status, they should have alerted Diana or Jones or me. But that’s beside the point. Somehow, Neal’s tracker was removed without unlocking it.”

A horrible, sickening thought occurred to Elizabeth. “Could whoever took them… could they have shattered Neal’s foot to get it off?”

“That is …” Hughes swallowed. “That is a possibility. The lab is running tests on it.”

“What happens now?” Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself.

“We’re sending in search teams at first light. Including dogs. I’ll need something of Peter’s to give them for the scent.”

She was halfway up the stairs to get a piece of her husband’s dirty laundry when Hughes called out to her.

“Elizabeth, we’ll also need a DNA sample. Hair, maybe?”

Even though her heart seemed to freeze, Elizabeth didn’t pause.


MOZ WAS ENJOYING A NEAL-FREE EVENING WITH JUNE IN HER BACK PARLOR. Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor (the classic Joan Sutherland version) was playing softly in the background, and his hostess was soundly thrashing him at Parcheesi. Not that it mattered. Moz was pleasantly buzzed, having liberated a bottle of Shiraz from Neal’s collection to generously share with June. Well, sharing meant that June took a few sips and Moz drained the rest over a rather splendid dairy-free meal. Which was why, when the doorbell rang at a quarter to eleven, Moz was too mellow to realize that the world was about to crash in on him.

He was setting up the board for another game when the housekeeper interrupted them. She was carrying a silver tray with a business card, which she handed to June.

“Reese Hughes, Special Agent in Charge, White Collar Unit. Moz, why would Peter’s boss be here now, at this hour?”

Mozzie immediately went into high alert, shaking the food and wine fuzziness out of his head. “I don’t know, but it can’t be good.” He checked his phone, but there were no messages or emails from Neal giving him a heads-up.

June told her housekeeper to bring the man to her. Moz tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. Neal had told him about Peter’s rather scary and intimidating boss, and the man seemed to typify the worst of the whole federal bureaucracy, efficient and relentless in his pursuit of the government’s objectives. But on the other hand, Neal was always careful to point out that it was Hughes who greenlit Neal’s first parole and signed off on the second deal, too.

And Moz, who had stared death in the face way too many times in the last few years, wasn’t about to be intimidated by an old, gray Suit, even if that Suit was one scary, bad-ass motherfucker. When Hughes entered the room, Moz faded into the background, fussing with the Parcheesi board, allowing June to present herself as mistress of this impressive abode.

“Agent Hughes, what brings you here this time of night?” Moz was, as always, impressed by the hauteur that June could bring to bear.

Moz felt something burning at the back of his neck, and he turned around to find the Old Gray Suit staring at him.

June must have realized that Hughes wouldn’t say anything without either Moz leaving the room (which he certainly wouldn’t do) or an introduction (which he wasn’t certain he wanted).

“Agent Hughes, I don’t believe you’ve met Neal’s friend, Dante Havisham?”

Hughes grunted an acknowledgement and, thankfully, did not hold out his hand.

Ever the fine hostess, even when faced with intrusive law enforcement at odd hours of the night, June said, “Would you care for a drink?”

“No, no thank you.” Hughes looked from June to Moz and back to June again.

Moz decided that it was time for him to speak up. “If this involves Neal, I’m his legal counsel – and I’m not leaving this room.”

Hughes stared at him and Moz knew that the man wanted to say something about his credentials, or the lack thereof. But there was no way in hell that Moz was giving the Old Gray Suit his real name.

“June, Mr. Havisham – I am afraid I have bad news.”

Moz felt the pit of his stomach just drop away.

“What happened?” Moz wasn’t sure if June asked or if he did.

“Sometime this morning, around 10 am, Agent Burke and Neal Caffrey disappeared in the Delaware State Forest in northeastern Pennsylvania.” Hughes – Agent Hughes – went on to tell them something about hitting a deer and scattered clothing.

“What about Neal’s tracker?” June asked the question that was forming on his tongue.

“His tracker was found working, near the abandoned car.”

Mozzie goggled at the man. “How the hell could that be? You just can’t cut the new model off – it requires …” He clamped his mouth shut. No matter what was going on with Neal, he wasn’t about to reveal professional secrets to a Fed.

Hughes didn’t even look at him – he seemed focused on his hands, or the floor. “We are going to send in a search team tomorrow morning, and they’ll need something for the dogs to work from – a piece of Neal’s clothing, a sock or underwear. That hasn’t been laundered. And the lab will need something for a DNA sample. Can one of you get these for us?”

“What do you think happened?” June’s voice was small, frightened.

“I don’t know – but they were probably taken by someone with a car or truck. It doesn’t make sense that they’d have been dragged off into the woods – but we’ve got to start a search somewhere.”

Hughes turned to look at him. “Mr. Havisham – do you know anyone who would want to hurt or kidnap Caffrey?”

Moz immediately thought of a dozen or so different crooks and con artists that Neal had dealt with or double-dealt over the years. “No one who would track him down like that – no one who would try for him when he was with the Suit.”

“The suit?”

“Your agent, Peter Burke.”

Hughes gave him a small, twisted smile. If Moz hadn’t been so worried about Neal, he’d have been scared enough to crap his pants.

“I’ll go get you something for the bloodhounds and your lab.” It went against every single principle to cooperate with the Feds, but this was for Neal. Who was missing and quite possibly injured. This was for his friend.



JONES STAYED BEHIND TO COORDINATE WITH THE STATE POLICE IN PENNSYLVANIA, Hughes had taken on the difficult task of first going to see Peter’s wife and then Neal’s landlady. Diana was left with the job of shepherding the physical evidence through the labs. While they were going to need DNA samples from both Peter and Neal (which Hughes was collecting), the labs could start processing the evidence from the site.

The dead deer was on its way – Jones had worked with the LEOs, including some State Fish and Game people, to get the carcass shipped to New York. He told Diana that he had almost clocked one of the transport guys when he suggested cutting off the massive rack of antlers for trophies. But the Fish and Game people intervened before he could get himself in trouble. Apparently, this species of deer wasn’t native to the area, and its antlers were outsized for the time of year. The Fish and Game guys were interested in the results of the autopsy.

So, it was left up to her to get the lab techs up and going, and watch over them. This type of evidentiary work was not something she had a lot of experience with. She could do the theoretical exercises, based on her Academy training, but she’d been working in white collar crimes since her first assignment, and there wasn’t a lot of call for physical forensics in her caseload.

Diana supposed that sitting in the lab, quietly observing, wasn’t the best use of her time, but there was little for her to do at 3 am except sleep, and she was too wired, too worried to even think about that. She knew she’d crash in a few hours, maybe on the ride back to Pennsylvania, but for now she wanted to keep watch, maybe make sure that the lab rats didn’t turn out the lights and leave it for tomorrow.

She must have dozed off, a bit of a micro-nap, when one of the techs startled her with a shout and she nearly fell of the lab stool.

“Hey – what’s the matter?”

“Is this some kind of joke?” The tech, whose name she didn’t get or didn’t remember, practically yelled at her. “You get me in here after hours, telling me that these clothes belong to missing Federal agents – ”

“One agent, one consultant.” She automatically corrected her.

“Whatever. But I’m asking what kind of shit-brained practical joke are you playing?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She never cursed, but the hour, her exhaustion and her anxiety over Peter and Neal had stripped Diana of her well-polished veneer.

“This clothing? It’s filled with dog hairs.”

Diana stared at the tech. “Wait? What did you just say?”

The tech began to speak, loud and slow, as if Diana were deaf or stupid. “I said – the inside of this clothing is coated with dog fur. As if it were worn by … DOGS.” She looked at Diana, contempt in her eyes. “And that might explain why some of the clothes were torn to pieces – like it was chewed off by DOGS.” The woman stood in front of Diana, belligerence radiating from head to toe.

“Look – that’s impossible. I was at the scene, I helped tag and bag the evidence. And I can tell you that that clothing belongs to Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey. Both men have dogs in their households, and it’s possible that some hair and dander got inside the fabric.” Diana knew that was a weak explanation; she couldn’t say for certain that Peter’s wardrobe wasn’t ever invaded by his dog, but she highly doubted that Neal would have let his landlady’s dog play inside his clothes.

The tech stepped back, a little mollified, and Diana finally got a look at her name tag, Lydia Carlton.

“What type of dogs do these guys have?”

“Agent Burke has a yellow lab, and Neal Caffrey’s landlady has a pug.”

Carlton shook her head. “That doesn’t explain it. The fur on the inside of the clothing is consistent for each set – long, black and gray on one, and reddish brown on the other. Both are wiry, with an undercoat. I’m not an expert, and I’ll send this over for zoological typing, but I’d have to say the fur or hair probably came from wirehaired pointers or something similar. And even if your guys had dogs with the right fur, I don’t think I’d find it on the inside of a sock or a pair of briefs.”

“So let me get this straight, you’re saying that it’s as if dogs had been wearing these clothes?”

Carlton nodded. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Is there any way this could be a fluke or accidental contamination?”

“I’ve pulled hairs from socks, underwear and the suit pants from both men. The placement of the hairs and the way they are embedded within the fabric is consistent with wearing – not contamination. Even if a dog had rolled in the clothes after they were discarded, it wouldn’t explain how fur got inside a sock.”

“You’ve got human material too, right?”

“Yeah, the short and curlies in the briefs – right next to and even embedded alongside the dog hairs – and skin flakes in the socks, consistent with human. We’ll need DNA samples for comparison, to make positive identification, but yeah – the clothes were worn by human beings too.”

Diana scrubbed at her face. “Is there any way you could be mistaken?”

Carlton grimaced. “Maybe with one piece of clothing. Maybe. But not with two socks, the underwear and the pants. I haven’t gotten to the shirts yet – both of those were torn. No. There is no mistake. Someone has fucked with your evidence – the clothing was on a dog, or two dogs. I’d stake my reputation on that.”

To Be Continued