elrhiarhodan

Title: We Shall Come Home - Chapter VIII
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: ~ 3,800 (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. Much angst in this chapter. Neal makes the decision he needs to, to survive. Hughes and the FBI have a showdown with the Marshals Service.

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

We Shall Come Home is not a work in progress. New chapters will be posted once a week, on Tuesdays.
Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Chapter IV | Chapter V | Chapter VI | Chapter VII |


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CHAPTER VIII - Saturday Afternoon - Evening

NEAL TRIED TO ORIENT HIMSELF, KEEPING THE SOUND OF THE ROAD BEHIND HIM. He had difficulty maintaining that position and he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to find Peter again. And if he couldn’t bring food back to him, they were both lost. Of the two of them, Neal thought that Peter was deteriorating faster than he was. He was stopping for rest breaks more frequently and when he begged Neal to hunt, he sounded on the verge of collapse. Neal knew that the rabbits weren’t enough; he thought about trying for fish, but that seemed impossible. He worried about raccoons; they could be rabid. Maybe if he could find a nesting goose or two… He licked his chops at the thought of eggs and all that protein.

Out of the corner of his eye, Neal saw a flash of pale brown and white – a rabbit. He dove after it and his jaws snapped on air. Neal sat down, appalled. For the first time since his transformation, he had missed his prey. Another rabbit popped up out of its den, and Neal went after it. He missed again and started digging desperately at the rain-softened soil. In his fury, he excavated a hole big enough to hide in, but he stopped digging. He knew he couldn’t afford to expend any extra energy, but he couldn’t give up.

Neal lay there, panting, worrying, and suddenly the forest grew still. A doe with a yearling fawn walked into view, seemingly oblivious to him. He thought how easy it would be to take down the fawn, or even the doe. That would mean meat, lots of rich real meat, and even milk, as she was obviously nursing. He could take her back to Peter (and he could now exactly pinpoint where Peter was) and Peter would be saved. But the idea of killing this beautiful, gentle creature, this mother, was terrifying. He’d be leaving the fawn helpless; it would quickly starve. And then he thought about the penalty for this kill. The rabbits, small simple creatures, had cost him plenty. Taking the life of the doe would likely take everything he had left of himself, and no amount of poetry, no songs, no gentle licks or sharp nips would ever bring him back to himself.

Maybe it was for the best. If he were fully a dog, with a canine’s sensibilities and lack of human morals, he could hunt for Peter at will. It would no longer be a reluctant act for the barest survival, but one that was instinctual, blameless. The thought crossed his mind that if they got home, Peter would always take care of him, and Satchmo would be good company. He just hoped that Peter wouldn’t have him neutered. If Peter died because Neal couldn’t care for him, he’d die too, lost and alone. He might as well wander onto the road and let himself get hit by a car, to make the end quicker.

The window for this decision was closing quickly. The deer, which had stopped to browse, were now within two feet of him. Neal weighed the options and realized that he had none left. This is for Peter. For Peter. For Peter. That was the last conscious human thought Neal would have.

He sprang out of the shallow hole he had dug, landing right on top of the doe. Neal broke her neck with one bite of his powerful jaws. The fawn, frozen and helpless, died with even less effort.

Neal sat between his kills, panting and triumphant.



PETER KNEW THE MOMENT THAT NEAL MADE THE KILL, EXCEPT THAT HE THOUGHT NEAL WAS DEAD. He had simply disappeared from Peter’s consciousness. The place where their minds connected was empty. This was different from when Neal had killed the rabbits or fought the bear. Those times, Peter could reach out and find confusion, instinct and a very small bit of “Caffrey-ness”. Now there was nothing. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, to think, to act.

His heart hurt from both the surge of grief and the sudden and total emptiness. Neal was gone – his best friend, his partner, one of only two people who really knew him, who understood him, and he was gone. He wanted to howl like Neal had done that first morning after their metamorphosis. He watched clouds scuttle across the sky, briefly blotting out the sun, and his eyes burned. He was a dog and couldn’t cry.

It seemed like hours that he lay there, stricken and unmoving, until he heard a sound from behind him. Something was coming through the undergrowth. Peter turned around and crouched low, hiding behind a fallen log. It sounded like something was being dragged. He waited for endless moments, until a large dark dog, pulling along the carcass of a deer, broke through the mass of ferns that carpeted the forest floor.

NEAL! Peter was overjoyed, Neal was alive. He licked at his face, nipped his ear, but there was no response from him, and he wouldn’t look at him directly. He kept his head down and he panted and wagged his tail. Neal was all dog now as he barked at Peter, seemingly proud of his kill and happy to be able to offer it to his alpha. Or at least that’s how Peter interpreted his behavior. Peter reached out to find that spark of Neal Caffrey, but there was nothing there.

Neal barked at him again, and pushed at the deer carcass. Peter’s mouth actually watered. In that moment, he understood what Neal had done; he’d surrendered his humanity for Peter’s survival. Nausea and horror warred with his hunger, but hunger won. He bent down to bite into the haunch and Neal stopped him. Peter instinctively drew back, ready to discipline the dog, until Neal nosed at the full udder with the engorged teats. Neal wanted him to have this and Peter recoiled, disgusted by the idea of taking milk from the dead animal. Then he looked at Neal, into eyes vacant of any human personality. Neal had sacrificed himself for him, for this – so that he could survive.

Once upon a time, Peter would have thought that Neal’s act was self-serving, that he needed Peter to stay healthy so they could get home. But not now. Now he believed with every bit of his soul that Neal was motivated by his own regard for Peter, and not for the end result. He was humbled and shamed and honored.

Putting aside his disgust and respecting Neal’s gift, Peter crouched down between the doe’s legs and nosed at the udder. He licked at the teat, tasting the dried milk, and tried to suckle. His pointed snout, with its sharp teeth and short dewlaps, wasn’t made for sucking, but Peter was infinitely conscious of Neal sitting there, panting, waiting. He kept at it until the milk came, warm and rich. He tried not to think about what he was doing, but as he swallowed, he felt his strength return, his thoughts became clearer and the dangerously fading path home was once again a burning bright arrow. He finished the milk, lifted his head and wished he could cry. Neal sat there, perfectly happy in his doggy oblivion.

As satisfying as the milk was, Peter was still hungry and he quickly tore into the deer’s soft underbelly and gorged until he could eat no more. He stepped back to let Neal eat, but he took off. Before puzzlement turned to worry, he returned with a smaller carcass – the fawn that had been nursing. Peter spared a moment’s prayer for the young animal and watched as Neal began to eat.

Peter decided that they wouldn’t travel any further today. They had food and they needed to rest. One more day wouldn’t make a difference.

They lazed in the sunshine like dogs. Neal ate, found them water, and slept. Peter did much the same, although he didn’t sleep. He paced and watched Neal, tried to work a way into Neal’s consciousness, but all he found was an empty void. Neal woke around midday and bounded over to him. He licked Peter’s face and nuzzled at his chin, then fetched a short stick. He dropped it at Peter’s feet, and assumed the typical canine “play” position, crouching low on his forelegs and lifting his hindquarters high, tail wagging as an enticement to join the game. Peter’s heart broke all over again.


EVEN THOUGH IT WAS SATURDAY AFTERNOON, THE CONFERENCE ROOM ON THE TWENTY-FIRST FLOOR WAS PACKED. Hughes sat at the head of the table. William Crawley, the head of the U.S. Marshals Service in New York City, was seated at the other end. Agents and marshals were arrayed on either side of the table and the arguing had gotten so loud that the glass walls were shaking.

For a good half hour, he watched as his agents and the Marshals exchanged ever more heated insults. Hughes toyed with the wedding band in his pocket and let his people blow off some steam, but finally he got fed up with the arguing. Hughes stood up and spoke. Although his voice was pitched low, it cut through the shouting like a knife.

“Settle down. This solves nothing. There are two people missing, a federal agent and a valued employee of this department.”

Several of the Marshals made derogatory noises at that last comment. Hughes addressed them head on.

“Marshals, do you have a problem?”

Crawley, who had remained seemingly neutral during the earlier, heated discussion, answered for his team. “Caffrey’s a felon who’s conned a really cushy deal out of you. He’s managed to get out of his tracker, for what – the fifth, sixth time? He’s a menace to the Service and to society. We have every right to put a shoot-on-sight order out on him.”

The FBI side of the room erupted in anger. Hughes quickly regained control. “Crawley, there is no reason to believe that Caffrey was responsible for Agent Burke’s disappearance or his own. The Marshals Service does not have any right at this point to give that order, particularly since Caffrey has no history of violent behavior.” Hughes hoped that no one in the Marshals Service had heard about Neal’s adventure with the stolen gun and Garrett Fowler. “In fact, your office has a lot to answer for. Your supposedly unbreakable, unhackable tracking anklet was unlocked without a key. Your system was supposed to alert this office when the GPS was stationary within a one-yard radius for more than fifteen minutes, but no such alert was issued.”

Crawley interrupted him. “A message was sent to his handler.”

Hughes was getting fed up with this in-fighting. If the Marshals weren’t going to help, they were going to get pushed aside. “So you say, but there’s no record of that message, and besides, Caffrey was with his handler. Your own established protocols required you to send a follow-up alert to his supervisor – that would be me – and to his designated subordinates when the first alert was not acknowledged. Those messages were not sent.”

Crawley leaned over to one of his staff and muttered something behind his hand, as if he were afraid that someone would read his lips.

Berrigan and Jones came into the conference room. Berrigan handed him a report; Jones caught his eye, nodded and patted his suit coat. Hughes scanned the report and prepared himself for what was bound to be another furious argument.

Before he could speak, Crawley started in again and he just let him go on and on. When the Marshal finally seemed to run out of words, when he finally realized that no one from the FBI was listening to him, he shut his mouth with a snap.

“Marshal Crawley, the FBI understands and appreciates your position…”

Crawley narrowed his eyes at him. Hughes knew his words lacked sincerity, but he was out of patience, and Peter and Neal were running out of time.

“You should take a look at the new forensic evidence that has just been brought to my attention, evidence that has significant bearing on the removal of Caffrey’s tracking anklet.” He gestured and Agent Berrigan handed the Marshal a copy of the file she had just given to him.

He read it and tossed the file back at the FBI agents. “What the hell is this?”

“Proof that the tracking anklet can be unlocked without a key. We had the lab run some fairly simple tests. It seems that a sustained discharge from a high current/high voltage electroshock weapon will momentarily reverse the polarity of the magnetic lock on the anklet. Because the GPS is well insulated, the shock wouldn’t completely disrupt the data stream. Fortunately for the Marshals Service, the amount of voltage and the current level needed to release the lock would result in severe injury or even death to the wearer.”

Hughes paused for effect. “You know there was a seven-second anomaly in Caffrey’s tracking data. And the test shows...” Hughes looked down at the report, “...that a seven-second sustained application of a high voltage electroshock weapon disrupts the magnetic lock without substantially interfering with the flow of data from the GPS radio to the satellite and back to the EMU.”

Crawley said nothing, he obviously knew that it would be impossible to self-administer a shock of that voltage or duration. The rest of his team gave him troubled looks.

Hughes tried not to sound smug, considering the gravity of the situation. “I think this completely changes the scenario. It is now quite plausible that another vehicle trailed Burke and Caffrey to the remote location, assaulted, disabled and took them. I know this doesn’t explain the other forensics – but it’s been more than three days since Burke and Caffrey went missing and we still need a plausible starting point for our search.”

Hughes motioned to Jones. “Sir, this is the court order you requested. Judge Holloway sends his regards.” The younger agent handed the blue-backed document to him. He opened it, noted the contents and handed it back to Jones, who gave it to Crawley.

The Marshal looked like he smelled something truly disgusting. “Bravo, bravo. You’ve managed to get a federal judge to authorize your complete disregard for inter-agency jurisdictional boundaries.” Crawley got to his feet. “Come on, guys – we’re no longer needed here. It seems that some asshole in a black robe has signed off on an order giving the FBI complete control over the recovery of their pet felon.”

The Marshals exited the conference room in a collective huff, and Hughes allowed himself a small smile.

Hughes turned to Peter’s former probie. “How did you even think to have these tests run?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he closed his eyes in exasperation. “I really don’t want to know, do I?”

“Let’s just say that the CI has his own very highly skilled and extremely difficult informant. He’s been effective before.”

Jones asked, “The little guy?”

“Yeah. He had some interesting ideas, and this one seemed to be worth looking into.”

Hughes knew all about “Dante Havisham” – a man with many aliases and every reason to avoid close contact with the FBI.

The White Collar division and a team from Kidnapping and Missing Persons worked through the day, compiling lists of manufacturers and dealers of electroshock weapons, getting down to the component level. No one was shy about waking up presidents and CEOs to get sales data. They struck gold when Eric Whitman, a known associate of Ryan Wilkes, turned up on shipping documents from three of the parts manufacturers over the last four months. The lab geeks were able to confirm that the ordered parts would be key elements of a very high voltage electroshock device, one powerful enough to unlock the anklet and seriously incapacitate anyone wearing it.

Although the parts were shipped to an address in Red Hook, Agent Blake discovered that this known associate had a grandmother living in Matamoras, Pennsylvania, at the eastern edge of Pike County, and everyone scrambled. Even Hughes, not normally one to let emotions overrule common sense, was certain that they would find Peter and Neal by the end of the day. He didn’t let himself consider whether they would be living or dead.

It was a joint operation between the Pennsylvania State Police, local law enforcement and the FBI. Nearly two dozen agents and officers poured into Delores Whitman’s home before dawn Sunday morning. They found nothing. No sign of Peter or Neal – just a very frightened elderly lady who hadn’t seen her grandson since he was a baby.

For the first time since his youngest daughter stopped talking to him and then disappeared without a trace, Reese Hughes wanted to cry.


PETER WOKE NEAL AS AN ALMOST-FULL MOON WAS AT ITS ZENITH. He was confident that they could get through Port Jervis and into New York before sunrise. Traveling at night had its risks, but he felt strong – as strong as he had when this nightmare started. The path in his head was bright and clear, and for the first time, he understood time and distances.

Neal was reluctant to rise; he kept burying his nose under his tail and Peter had to nip him to get him up. The dog’s eyes were full of hurt at the seemingly unwarranted discipline. Peter understood – it was night, after all, not a time that a dog should be up and about. But once they got going, Neal kept to the pace that he set. They were making progress, but Peter had never felt as alone as he did that night. He could hear Neal behind him, but the loneliness was indescribable. To know that Neal was with him, but completely absent, was terrifying.

As they trotted along, the highway forked and Peter had to make a choice. Stay on close to Interstate 84, and they’d have to cross the Delaware using the large and busy double-span bridge, about a half-mile long. Go to the north, about five miles out of the way and they could take the shorter, less trafficked local bridge from Matamoras into the heart of Port Jervis. They’d then have to find their way south, back to 84, which meant navigating through city and suburban streets. The arrow in his head pointed him to the local bridge. His gut confirmed that decision and they headed north.

The path Peter took them on skirted the busier streets of Matamoras, cutting through undeveloped areas until they reached the roadway that ran along the edge of the Delaware River. The bridge into Port Jervis was an open decked roadway, and difficult for them to walk on, but it was thankfully short. With the first paw back on solid ground, something chimed within him: they were back in New York, and getting home was more than just a possibility.

Peter thought about trying to find a local business, maybe a restaurant with outdoor seating where they could filch some food, but given the amount of traffic, it seemed very late for anything to be open. His internal compass was pulling him south now, back to the Interstate. He checked behind him.

Neal wasn’t there.

Peter panicked; he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had last seen Neal. Was it before or after the bridge? Was Neal behind him in Matamoras? Or had he lost him when they swung north to avoid the Interstate? Peter started back when a pair of eyes glowed out of the darkness.

Neal? There was no answer, of course, but it was Neal. Peter sniffed around him...it seemed that his friend had taken himself off for an extended session of marking trees and cars and hydrants. Neal sat down in front of Peter, head low. Peter’s balls began to itch and he wanted to go and re-mark every one of those trees and cars and hydrants. He fought the sensation, gave Neal a nip to the shoulder and another on his butt and continued southbound. This time he constantly looked over his shoulder to make certain Neal was there.

They crossed under the highway and kept the road to their left now. Peter was exhausted by the time the moon set, and it was too dark to travel any further. He was not in the same desperate way he had been two nights ago, before the storm, but tired enough. He stopped and licked his chops, hoping that Neal would understand that he was thirsty. He did, and led them to a small stream a few hundred yards away from the roadway.

They took shelter under a stand of pines. Peter watched as Neal circled around himself a few times before lying down, nose under his tail. Peter stretched out behind him, resting his head on Neal’s hindquarters, needing the warmth of direct contact to calm him down, so he could sleep. The bed of fallen needles was surprisingly comfortable, and Peter finally dozed off. His breath in sync with Neal’s, his last thought was, Tomorrow has to be better.

To Be Continued