It makes Peter sick, being so close to Caffrey. True, Caffrey is in jail, but Peter's always been of the opinion that life without the possibility of parole was too good for him.
"What is this, Neal? Want to rub it in my face how you could have escaped all along?"
Neal smirks. He had escaped, last week, at the news that Kate was leaving the country for parts unknown. Kate, his alleged accomplice who they'd never been able to pin anything on but everyone knew was the Bonnie to his Clyde. Kate was long gone by the time Caffrey had made his way to her apartment. Peter had caught him, thankfully before Caffrey decided to take things out on some hapless passerby.
"You need me." Neal pushes yesterday's paper across the table in the visiting room. The front page is splattered with reports of the latest serial killer: "Grisly Murders Baffle Police!"
"We don't need you, Neal. I hate to break it to you, but we've got these wonderful things called criminologists -"
"You can't catch him. I can." Neal taps the paper. "He's making mistakes. You can't see them, but I can."
Peter raises an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."
"Nuh-uh-ah …" Neal shakes his head. "Let me out of here first."
Peter gets up to leave. "We're done here."
"Look, you can put one of those tracker anklets on me! You can lock me up every night! Just please let me out of this place! I'm … I'm bored."
And Neal sounds so pathetic, so desperate. Peter relishes hearing that in the voice of this killer, this monster, the man who smiled and seduced and sliced up each and every one of his lovely victims and used their blood to accentuate the paintings he made his living off of.
"Neal, I'd rather you were locked up in here with all the other monsters than roaming out in the world with innocents, tracking anklet or not."
Neal smiles, all teeth and icy eyes. "I broke out before. I can do it again. They'll get sloppy, they'll think I've given up. Next month, next year, ten years … I'll get out. I'll find a way. And when I do, I'll come for you first. Maybe I'll lure you out with some cute little college girl, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Just like Juliet Waters -"
And Peter lunges for him, without thinking, knocks Neal out of his chair and onto the floor. Neal spits blood onto the concrete and laughs as the guards come to drag him away and haul Peter out.
"His next victim's going to be Asian! He'll tie her to a tree, I know he will!" Neal yells before locked doors slam shut between him and Peter.
He's right, of course. The next victim is Asian, a 25 year old NYU grad tied to a tree in Central Park, clothes in tatters and strange shapes carved into her torso and legs, just like the previous victims. The tree is new, though, as is her ethnicity, all the previous victims have been Caucasian.
Three days later, Neal is limping slightly as he follows Peter, the anklet giving him some trouble. If Neal slips up at any time, it's right back in prison forever, with no library privileges for a year. So long as he provides assistance on cases, he can stay on the outside, provided he remains in his apartment ("lockdown") at certain randomly decided hours and doesn't purchase any knives.
"When do I get to meet your wife?" Neal asks as they wait for the subway.
Peter nearly crushes his coffee cup. "Never. Leave her out of this."
"But I want to meet her, I want to know what kind of woman could satisfy you." Neal leans forward, breath on Peter's neck. The crowds are so close that Peter can't move away, wants to flinch but doesn't want to give Neal that satisfaction.
"You never gave up. I sent clues that nobody could understand, and still you didn't give up. Did I ever tell you how that made me feel, being hunted like that? The hunter being hunted …"
The train arrives and Peter hurries onboard, Neal trailing after him. When the car shudders and starts to rattle out of the station, Neal stumbles and clings to Peter's arm.
"We should play again sometime." Neal says.
"That … that wasn't a game, Neal. Please tell me you understand that." Peter hisses through gritted teeth, disentangling himself from Neal's clingy arms.
"What's there to understand?" Neal pokes him in the chest, smirking. "Tag … you're it."
Good god this idea just grabbed me and wouldn't let me go ...
It makes Peter sick, being so close to Caffrey. True, Caffrey is in jail, but Peter's always been of the opinion that life without the possibility of parole was too good for him.
"What is this, Neal? Want to rub it in my face how you could have escaped all along?"
Neal smirks. He had escaped, last week, at the news that Kate was leaving the country for parts unknown. Kate, his alleged accomplice who they'd never been able to pin anything on but everyone knew was the Bonnie to his Clyde. Kate was long gone by the time Caffrey had made his way to her apartment. Peter had caught him, thankfully before Caffrey decided to take things out on some hapless passerby.
"You need me." Neal pushes yesterday's paper across the table in the visiting room. The front page is splattered with reports of the latest serial killer: "Grisly Murders Baffle Police!"
"We don't need you, Neal. I hate to break it to you, but we've got these wonderful things called criminologists -"
"You can't catch him. I can." Neal taps the paper. "He's making mistakes. You can't see them, but I can."
Peter raises an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."
"Nuh-uh-ah …" Neal shakes his head. "Let me out of here first."
Peter gets up to leave. "We're done here."
"Look, you can put one of those tracker anklets on me! You can lock me up every night! Just please let me out of this place! I'm … I'm bored."
And Neal sounds so pathetic, so desperate. Peter relishes hearing that in the voice of this killer, this monster, the man who smiled and seduced and sliced up each and every one of his lovely victims and used their blood to accentuate the paintings he made his living off of.
"Neal, I'd rather you were locked up in here with all the other monsters than roaming out in the world with innocents, tracking anklet or not."
Neal smiles, all teeth and icy eyes. "I broke out before. I can do it again. They'll get sloppy, they'll think I've given up. Next month, next year, ten years … I'll get out. I'll find a way. And when I do, I'll come for you first. Maybe I'll lure you out with some cute little college girl, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Just like Juliet Waters -"
And Peter lunges for him, without thinking, knocks Neal out of his chair and onto the floor. Neal spits blood onto the concrete and laughs as the guards come to drag him away and haul Peter out.
"His next victim's going to be Asian! He'll tie her to a tree, I know he will!" Neal yells before locked doors slam shut between him and Peter.
He's right, of course. The next victim is Asian, a 25 year old NYU grad tied to a tree in Central Park, clothes in tatters and strange shapes carved into her torso and legs, just like the previous victims. The tree is new, though, as is her ethnicity, all the previous victims have been Caucasian.
Three days later, Neal is limping slightly as he follows Peter, the anklet giving him some trouble. If Neal slips up at any time, it's right back in prison forever, with no library privileges for a year. So long as he provides assistance on cases, he can stay on the outside, provided he remains in his apartment ("lockdown") at certain randomly decided hours and doesn't purchase any knives.
"When do I get to meet your wife?" Neal asks as they wait for the subway.
Peter nearly crushes his coffee cup. "Never. Leave her out of this."
"But I want to meet her, I want to know what kind of woman could satisfy you." Neal leans forward, breath on Peter's neck. The crowds are so close that Peter can't move away, wants to flinch but doesn't want to give Neal that satisfaction.
"You never gave up. I sent clues that nobody could understand, and still you didn't give up. Did I ever tell you how that made me feel, being hunted like that? The hunter being hunted …"
The train arrives and Peter hurries onboard, Neal trailing after him. When the car shudders and starts to rattle out of the station, Neal stumbles and clings to Peter's arm.
"We should play again sometime." Neal says.
"That … that wasn't a game, Neal. Please tell me you understand that." Peter hisses through gritted teeth, disentangling himself from Neal's clingy arms.
"What's there to understand?" Neal pokes him in the chest, smirking. "Tag … you're it."