Chapter Text
Prologue
Neal was weak and thirsty, and his body hurt everywhere. They had worked him over pretty good during those first days, not that it was necessary, but rather because they could. He couldn’t remember how long ago that was, or when the last sporadic bottle of water had been tossed his way in this dismal place. He had been more alert then, scrutinizing what he was sure was to become his own personal crypt. It was a small, square space lined with damp cinder block walls, and the heavy-linked chain around his right wrist was still attached to the ring embedded in the concrete. During what he perceived as the daylight hours, small cracks around the periphery of the enclosure allowed in a hint of illumination. He saw that the extremely low ceiling in his prison was unique, consisting of a series of rusted gears and cogged wheels, one intermeshing with another. It reminded him of some of those intricate screen savers that people installed on their computers.
Neal knew that he was growing more and more debilitated, and had come to accept the premise that he would die here, ignominiously abandoned and alone. He had made a sort of peace with it, and, with that feeling of acceptance, his mind settled. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and during one brief period of lucidity, he stared in fascination at a tiny blinking light that wafted just above him. Ah, a firefly, the synapses in his brain told him. He remembered chasing them through grass damp with evening dew when he was a child. He’d capture them in his small hands and put them into an empty mayonnaise jar, its metal lid perforated with holes so that they could breathe. He remembered his mother laughing, and that was a welcome sound because, with time, she had stopped laughing.
Then the tiny insect’s blinking midsection ushered in another memory from early childhood. Neal’s mother had taken him to a neighborhood children’s theatre to see a play—“Peter Pan.” He recalled being captivated with the mischievous miniature pixie with the unlikely name of Tinkerbell. She was Peter’s devoted little groupie who lit up the stage with her beautiful magical glow. At one point in the story, Tinkerbell was captured by the evil Captain Hook and imprisoned in a lantern. Peter would not be coming to rescue her. In fact, Peter had forsaken his once best friend because he had stopped believing in her.
Tinkerbell’s light had slowly begun to dim, signifying that she was dying. From somewhere off-stage, a narrator urged the youngsters in the audience to help save poor abandoned Tinkerbell.
“If you believe in pixies and fairies and their magic,” he pleaded, “clap your hands.”
Of course, little hands, Neal’s included, immediately came together. As the din increased in the audience, Tinkerbell’s light stopped fading and began to grow stronger. Someone believed in her, and that was what ultimately restored her strength and saved her life.
Neal’s final thought as he slipped from consciousness for the last time was, “Please, please, somebody out there, clap your hands!”
Several Months Earlier
Neal strolled nonchalantly into the White Collar office twenty minutes after 9 AM. Lately, he had been making it a habit to arrive well after the normal start of an FBI day to see just how far he could push the envelope before his new handler would take exception and deliver a reprimand. David Siegel was still an unknown wildcard to Neal. He had appeared on the scene a few weeks after Peter had paid a surprise visit to Neal’s loft and delivered a new updated anklet along with the ominous mandate of a redefined relationship between himself and Neal.
In truth, Neal had been blindsided. He had always considered Peter to be his rock through thick and thin, and when his mentor was unjustly imprisoned for the sin of Neal’s father, well, it was a no-brainer. Neal would do whatever he had to do to make it right while keeping Peter in the dark about his serendipitous reversal of fortune. However, in the end, it seemed all that Neal’s good-intentioned efforts had gained him was Peter’s distrust and thinly veiled hostility. It really cut deep when Peter labeled Neal a criminal rather than a friend, and revealed that he needed to pull away because his CI was responsible for clouding his moral judgment.
Neal took it on the chin without flinching. He would never allow Peter to see the raw hurt. He reasoned that he didn’t have much time left to serve out the rest of his indentured parole to the FBI. So, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and he was determined to reach it and close this tumultuous chapter of his life. When that time came, he would start fresh, unencumbered with guilt or remorse. He had been betrayed and kicked to the curb before, and he had survived. So, he could do it again!
Neal sat the to-go cup of coffee atop his desk and looked around at the empty bullpen. It seemed like the whole team, Siegel included, was congregated in the second floor conference room along with Peter. In the crowded space, Neal could just barely make out a tiny, white-haired woman seated at the conference table. Eventually, about an hour and a half later, Clinton Jones escorted the stranger slowly down the steps and out to the elevators. The diminutive lady moved gingerly, as if her joints were stiff, and she held tight to Jones’ forearm while looking straight ahead. However, when she came abreast of Neal’s desk, she suddenly stopped and turned her head curiously. She gave Neal a long, piercing look before a small, hesitant smile formed on her lips. She said nothing, and in a few seconds resumed the tedious trek towards the elevators.
Not long after, Siegel made his own way down to Neal’s desk, and, if he was aware of the con man’s earlier tardiness, he made no mention of it. Their new partnership was still in its infancy, so their interactions were tentative. Since he had come on the job, Siegel had kept Neal at arm’s length. He had not taken his new partner with him on any ops, preferring to saddle him with piles of old mortgage fraud cases. Now, new file folders were again plopped atop the others, so Neal knew that meant it was another desk-bound day.
“So,” Neal queried, “what’s with the geriatric visitor this morning?”
“Oh, that little powwow upstairs was really nothing,” Siegel claimed.
“I take that to mean that it is on a ‘need to know basis,’ and I don’t need to know. Does that about sum it up?” Neal remarked placidly without any sarcasm evident in his tone.
However, Neal’s words appeared to make Siegel a bit uncomfortable. The new agent seemed suddenly embarrassed, perhaps regretting his terse answer to Neal’s innocent question. He and Neal were literally two strangers who still didn’t have each other figured out yet. The last thing the recent transfer wanted to do was to set an antagonistic tone, so he perched on the edge of Neal’s desk and clued his CI in on the recent activities.
“That lady’s name is Adele Hayworth, and she claims to be a psychic who had something to offer about the kidnapping that we are investigating,” Siegel said with a shrug of his shoulders.
Neal was aware of the current dynamic case involving the abduction of a telecommunications tycoon from his 5th Avenue apartment three days ago. The family had discretely paid the exorbitant ransom demanded by those supposedly holding him captive, but, as yet, the man was still missing. The FBI was brought into the case after the fact, and was now playing catch up. However, they had little to go on. Most agents suspected that the mogul was dead, with it only being a matter of time before his body was discovered. This was actually the third kidnapping of a wealthy individual that the FBI had investigated in the last six months. None of the outcomes had been good.
“Since when does the FBI resort to using psychics?” Neal was truly intrigued.
“Since the mayor is putting all kinds of pressure on us to make some headway,” Siegel answered glumly. “The missing guy is his personal friend, and the family is strongly urging His Honor to employ any means necessary to bring him home, no matter how far-fetched. It seems that in the past, this old lady has helped police in several other states to locate missing persons, and, if you believe the reports, she has had some impressive successes. I personally think that we are wasting valuable time and grasping at straws, but those above my paygrade want no stone left unturned. So, we allocated a few hours to devote to the ‘woo-woo,’ aspect, and now the FBI can say that they have explored every avenue, no matter how weird.”
“Was she helpful today?” Neal asked.
“Nah, not really. She claimed that she had some vague awareness of the guy being near water. Now, New York is a friggin’ island that’s surrounded by water, so, in a nutshell—no, she wasn’t very helpful to our investigation. And speaking of which, I have to hit the pavement to interview some people who worked with the missing man. I’ll check in with you later this afternoon.”
With that, Siegel was out the door, leaving Neal with his mortgage fraud cases. The CI worked diligently for the next hour before his eyes started to cross. He had unraveled a few knotty cases, so Siegel should be happy, but Neal wanted to pace himself. There was no reason to clear his stack of work because, like procreating rabbits, more files would magically make their way to his desk. It was almost noon, so Neal decided to take an early lunch and perhaps stretch it out as long as he could before someone noticed his absence. More than likely, he would be back at his desk before Siegel returned.
There was a pleasant little café not far down the street from the FBI building that served pretty good sandwiches and salads. It didn’t necessitate a long walk or a cab ride, so Neal decided that it was going to be his lunch destination. There were several table set up outside with big, striped umbrellas providing shade from the midday sun, and Neal slowly maneuvered his way through the labyrinth of chairs to reach the maître d’s station. He was halfway there when a pleasant voice stopped him.
“Would you care to join me, Agent?”
Neal quickly looked around and realized that Adele Hayworth was addressing him, her smile shy and tentative. She was already seated at a table and had the remains of a fruit salad in front of her. He approached her with his own charming smile in place.
“Mrs. Hayworth, how coincidental that we happened to choose the same place for lunch. And my name is Neal, by the way, and I’m not an agent.”
Like all good con men, the fleeting thought skittered across Neal’s mind that this woman could have planned this “accidental” meeting. But then he reasoned that she had left the FBI building an hour before he did, and would have had no knowledge if he was going out to lunch or where. Neal considered that perhaps Mozzie’s paranoia was rubbing off on him.
The mystery woman smiled a little more certainly now. “Please call me Adele, Neal, and don’t feel obligated to keep an old lady company if you are expecting someone to join you for your meal.”
“Quite the contrary,” Neal commented gallantly, “I would love the pleasure of your company.”
After seating himself and ordering his lunch, Neal regarded the grandmotherly matron curiously.
“So, you are all by yourself today. Are you perhaps waiting for your husband?” Neal asked.
“Actually, I’m a widow,” she responded. “I am used to being alone, and I find it entertaining to just sit quietly and people-watch. My granddaughter dropped me off earlier at the FBI office after we drove in from Greenwich, Connecticut. Since I didn’t know how long that would take, I told her to enjoy some shopping, and I would call her when I was done.”
She then picked up an old-fashioned flip phone from the table. “It’s really an ancient ‘dumb’ phone—not a ‘smart’ one like those new fangled things that seem to have the ability to connect with other planets in the solar system. However, it gets the basic job done, and Alicia should be here soon.”
Neal smiled pleasantly, but a sarcastic thought crossed his mind. If this woman were a “psychic,” why would she need a phone? She could just send her thoughts on their way via the ether. He wondered what her reaction would be if he said that aloud! In Neal’s cynical opinion, people who claimed to have clairvoyance were frauds and charlatans who took advantage of other people’s blind faith while lining their pockets. Most folks who frequented them were troubled with doubts and uncertainties, and were looking for reasons and definitive answers. Psychics took advantage of their vulnerabilities.
Psychic “readings” were broad enough that anything could be interpreted to be pertinent and to fit neatly into a person’s present dilemma. The ruse was fueled by the so-called psychic’s savvy ability to read body language and facial expressions, pushing just a little bit further in the direction that those tells led them. Little by little, they would string the mark along, usually promising that more information could be gleaned with additional sessions. His thoughts continued in this vein when Mrs. Hayworth suddenly chuckled.
“You really don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you, Neal?”
Neal knew that he had no “tells.” Years of steeling his facial features in any situation, stressful or otherwise, was a necessary skill for a con artist. He wondered why this woman had reached that conclusion. Was it just the normal response that she was used to getting from new acquaintances?
“Why would you think that, Mrs. Hayworth?” Neal had to ask.
“Please, Neal, call me Adele. I can sense that you are quite skeptical of me, and you have every right to be so. Most likely, you have been told that I am a clairvoyant, and you, like many others, are leery of that claim. People don’t want to believe in something that they can’t see or can’t explain.”
Neal stayed quiet, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her statement, so Mrs. Hayworth forged ahead with her reasoning.
“Everybody in today’s world is so mired down in reality—a reality that all the new technologies strive to reinforce. Scientists take things apart so that they can see the inner workings, thereby removing the mysteries from life. My goodness, even man’s primal DNA molecules have been dissected and quantified. Science is currently the god that we worship, and it is slowly replacing faith. Traditional religions are dying out because people refuse to accept things on blind trust anymore. How can there be a soul if you cannot see it?
People want to understand the how and the why of everything. As a society, we have become quite voyeuristic. We want to witness things with our own eyes. To prove my point, just look at the multitude of reality shows on the boob tube today. I think that the result is a very closed-minded and judgmental populace, and I also think that is very sad.”
Neal was temporarily taken aback with the perceptive woman’s words. She had a definite talent for cutting to the chase.
“So, explain it to me, Adele. Tell me about your ‘gift.’” Neal challenged.
A wry smile made its way to Adele’s lips. “My ability could be considered a curse as well as a gift, I’m afraid. To be precise, let me just begin by saying that I became aware of the ‘phenomena’ at a very young age. Actually, that is not quite an accurate statement. At first, when I was a child, I did not think it was at all unusual. I assumed that everyone had the same experiences and that it was ‘normal.’
I could sense when things were about to happen or had already occurred. I would get a feeling of floating, nebulous unease if they were bad things. I’d feel jittery and restless because I couldn’t put my finger on the source of those forebodings. Following that up, most of the time I would have disturbing dreams with disembodied images coming into view. I felt an urgency to make sense, somehow, of what those images meant. With the wisdom of age, I have come to realize that may not be my job. I am simply a conduit to pass them on to those with the talents and abilities to decipher their meanings and to act on them.”
Adele paused in her explanation to glance searchingly at Neal.
“Do you want me to go on,” she asked, “or are you already bored and just too chivalrous to say so?”
“Not at all, Adele. By all means, continue and help me to understand,” Neal urged good-naturedly.
Adele obliged by taking it to the next level. “Please do not confuse me with those tricksters who claim to cross over to the ‘other side’ and commune with dead spirits. Séances are ridiculous charades, in my opinion, and I pity those taken in by malicious frauds. Not only do I not talk to dead people, I do not pretend to know the future. I only have a vague awareness of a person’s present difficulty, or perhaps their eventual destiny with absolutely no details. I do, however, sense some things by way of color, and colors have come to have different meanings for me. Actually, there is a word for this that our good, empirical scientists have termed ‘synesthesia.’
I have done a lot of research on the subject, and have come to discover that it is a neurological anomaly most likely centered in the temporal lobe of the brain. There are various types of synesthesia involving one or more of the five senses. Some scientists believe that it is a definite aberration resulting from an injury to the brain, or, in the absence of a stroke or brain trauma, merely the result of a glitch in fetal brain development.
What they cannot dispute is that it does exist. Although rare, it has been found in approximately four percent of the human species. Again, most people who experience it are unaware that others do not see things the same way. Only recently, when papers have been published on the subject and it has been discussed in the scientific community, have people come forward admitting that certain situations in their world trigger a specific color. Usually, these people are artistically creative in some form. Noted musicians like Duke Ellington, Billy Joel, and Itzhak Perlman have all confessed that they see various musical notes in vibrant colors. Physicist Nikola Tesla saw elements of his formulas take on different hues. So, because of these testimonials by respected individuals, some credence is rightly bestowed on that aptitude.”
Neal studied the old woman in a new light. Obviously, she was educated and astute, and she was definitely not trying to gain a new convert today. It appeared that she expected not to be taken seriously, most likely because cynical people had summarily dismissed her claims in the past. Neal had to admire her for even showing up today at the Bureau.
“So, Adele, were you able to help the FBI this morning by giving them any information?” Neal asked.
The old lady sighed. “Very little, I’m afraid. Of course, after I heard about the abduction on the late edition of the news, the kidnapping was definitely on my mind when I fell asleep that night. I never see faces in my dreams, you must understand, although I am usually aware of the person’s identity. That night, I dreamed that I perceived the missing man in a small, wooden enclosure. The vertical slats surrounding him were once white, but now the paint was old and peeling, and there were rotted sections literally falling down. I also felt that he either was near or partially submerged in water. He was alone, and I saw a blue aura in the space where I observed him to be.”
“What does the color blue mean to you?” Neal wanted to know.
“Unfortunately, in this instance, I do not think that it depicts a good outcome, Neal.”
“So, the color blue signifies death to you?” Neal asked.
“Nothing is ever that definite in my world, my young friend,” Adele responded. “Blue can mean other things such as a great loss or overwhelming grief as well as something as final as death. I sincerely hope that I am wrong, but I do not believe that I am. I am afraid that only time will tell how bleak this man’s fate is. I feel very sorry for those left behind waiting for an answer and some closure. I only wish that I could have been more helpful.”
Neal suddenly found that he had to ask. “Adele, why did you suddenly stop by my desk and look at me so intently when you were leaving the FBI building earlier?”
“Ah, does my doubting cynic want a ‘reading’ from me?” Adele asked with a disbelieving expression. “I’ve just explained that I am far removed from a gypsy toting around a crystal ball in my handbag.”
Neal found himself blushing for being so clumsy in his inquiry. He was usually more slick than this, getting answers before people even realized he was asking them anything.
“That’s not it at all,” Neal hastened to reassure her. “I was just curious why you apparently singled me out for just a few brief moments.”
The old lady looked reticent to continue. “Perhaps I just needed to stop for a minute to catch my breath,” she said unconvincingly.
Neal just raised his eyebrows making it clear that he doubted her sincerity.
Again, the old lady sighed but eventually took pity on her new acquaintance.
“As I was leaving the FBI’s conference room and descending the stairs, I began to perceive a strong aura emanating from somewhere in the room. The closer that I got to you, the stronger that feeling became. It was almost magnetic in nature, drawing me to it and literally stopping my steps when I came to stand beside you.”
“Did you see a color?” Neal asked almost hesitantly.
Adele smiled sadly. “Yes, it was a vibrant, pulsating blue in nature, and quite overwhelming.”
“So, you thought that you were seeing my eventual death?” Neal asked incredulously.
“Not at all, Neal. As I have told you, the color blue has many connotations in the context of my domain. What I saw in you was a very deep and lingering sadness. I feel that you have suffered great losses in your life, some perhaps originating in your childhood. I intuited that other losses are more fresh—perhaps a loved one who was taken from you. You have been hurt many times, and bear poignant psychological scars that you diligently try to hide from view.
You wear many faces, my friend, and very few know the real you. Most tend to misunderstand your true motivations and decide to keep you at a distance because it frightens their stable little worlds. That is hurtful because you have a great desire and need for intimacy and trust. Lately, those things have become elusive and far beyond your reach, and that is what is driving the deep melancholy.
Unfortunately, there is, indeed, going to be more death around you, but definitely not yours—not yet, anyway. I do think that you will go away for a while, but it will not be a true death and you will recover—perhaps I am seeing an illness of some sort. But I feel that ultimately you will survive and rejoin life again on your own terms,” Adele tried to reassure the young man whose eyes were riveted on her.
“We all die one day, Neal, and maybe it is best that we remain ignorant of the time and the circumstances. If we knew our ultimate end, perhaps more suicides would occur because people would not want to endure prolonged pain, suffering, or desperate loneliness.”
Neal found himself continuing to stare at this woman. The logical part of his mind told him that there had been some loose lips within the FBI. Somebody had given Adele an earful about Neal, most likely before she had ever entered the conference room. His past was common knowledge. Lately, since Peter had put a cold remoteness between them, the gossip around the coffee urn was rampant with speculation. Probably all the presumptuous agents assumed that Neal had screwed up royally, thereby fulfilling the prophesy that con men couldn’t be trusted. In their minds, criminals would always eventually turn ugly and bite the hand that feeds them. He doubted that Peter, himself, would betray any confidences, but there were a lot of other agents present that day who could have talked to her beforehand.
Neal was determined not to be this woman’s mark. He wouldn’t put any faith in her assessments or predictions. Still, he felt like his whole life had suddenly been laid bare before her, and that was a truly uncomfortable sensation. Before he could comment further, a horn beeped at the curb and a young woman could be seen waving her hand out the driver’s window.
“Ah, Alicia, God bless her, has arrived to take me home,” Adele exclaimed. “It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Neal. I can only hope that things in your life will improve. You are a good and kind soul, my troubled friend. Just believe in yourself and try to realize your value and all that you have to offer those wise enough to accept it.”
She took the arm that Neal extended and made steady, determined progress toward the car. With a smile and a wave, she then left Neal’s life as briskly and unexpectedly as she had entered it.