[ Yeah, Neal saw that cliff. He saw that cliff and turned right the hell around, thanks very much. Bad enough that he's in nothing but a finely tailored suit, a silk tie, and a fedora. It was early fall an hour ago. His Italian leather shoes are a hopeless case at this point. He's tripped over pretty much every rock, branch, and root that's remotely in his path.
He's a New Yorker. This is so not his speed.
When Neal finally straggles in to town, he's half-frozen and his fingertips feel numb. Which, he knows, is not a good thing. He tucks his hands up under his armpits, studying the architecture around him as he makes a beeline for the nearest building-of-your-choice. It's got to be warmer inside than out.
It is, thank goodness. He keeps his hands tucked under his armpits, staring out at the falling snow through a window. ]
Okay. Coastal. Colonial Revival architecture. Possibly North Eastern US or Canada. Weird mix of recently and not-so-recently abandoned.
[ He pulls one pant leg up, briefly inspecting a tracking anklet fastened firmly around his leg. The light is off. Neal rubs his face. ]
Great. Drugged and dumped in the middle of nowhere, with no way for Peter to find me. I had no idea Adler's sense of humor trended toward the macabre.
ii. bodies without souls
[ He can't figure out the window. His first impulse is some kind of projection or hologram, but the patterns don't repeat, even after he's watched from inside for almost an hour. (Never let it be said that Neal Caffrey isn't thorough.) The tapping is getting to him, no question. He's pressed his hands against the glass, tried to feel the reverberations, but nothing. It doesn't matter how many times he's switched sides, how many angles he's checked. It doesn't make sense.
He's visited the office, of course. He's tried the safe, obviously. It's either broken or custom built, with some trick to opening it he hasn't found yet. Someone clearly wanted in, anyway.
This time when he goes into the office, he comes back out with the chair from behind the desk. He doesn't exactly like what he's about to do--it seems a waste of something incredibly clever--but that tapping is back and it's making his hair stand on end. Maybe if he can at least find some sign of the trick in the broken glass--
And to that end, he hefts the chair and braces his feet. ] Allons-y I guess. [ And then he chucks the chair through one of the front windows. ]
iii. the end approaches
[ Neal's found the bulletin board. He's perused the notes, written down the equations, copied over the strange symbols onto a piece of paper to mull over later. Some kind of code? Maybe. Under his breath: ] You'd love this, Moz. Well. This part, anyway.
[ Where's a short, bald, near-sighted codebreaker when you need one?
He runs his fingertips over a few of the notes, inspects the push pins, tries the ink in the pens on a fresh piece of paper. The fact that there's no dust on the writing implements gives him the crawls in a big, big way.
Finally, finally, he turns his attention to that map. He's been avoiding it, avoiding it since it clicked what that rust-colored smear must be. But this is his area. Maybe not dating the blood--but he can figure out the map itself, at least. He fingers the paper, scratches at the ink, gets within inches of its surface to inspect it. Not close enough to touch that red smear. Hell no. Quietly:] Where did you come from, friend?
NEAL CAFFREY || WHITE COLLAR
[ Yeah, Neal saw that cliff. He saw that cliff and turned right the hell around, thanks very much. Bad enough that he's in nothing but a finely tailored suit, a silk tie, and a fedora. It was early fall an hour ago. His Italian leather shoes are a hopeless case at this point. He's tripped over pretty much every rock, branch, and root that's remotely in his path.
He's a New Yorker. This is so not his speed.
When Neal finally straggles in to town, he's half-frozen and his fingertips feel numb. Which, he knows, is not a good thing. He tucks his hands up under his armpits, studying the architecture around him as he makes a beeline for the nearest building-of-your-choice. It's got to be warmer inside than out.
It is, thank goodness. He keeps his hands tucked under his armpits, staring out at the falling snow through a window. ]
Okay. Coastal. Colonial Revival architecture. Possibly North Eastern US or Canada. Weird mix of recently and not-so-recently abandoned.
[ He pulls one pant leg up, briefly inspecting a tracking anklet fastened firmly around his leg. The light is off. Neal rubs his face. ]
Great. Drugged and dumped in the middle of nowhere, with no way for Peter to find me. I had no idea Adler's sense of humor trended toward the macabre.
[ He can't figure out the window. His first impulse is some kind of projection or hologram, but the patterns don't repeat, even after he's watched from inside for almost an hour. (Never let it be said that Neal Caffrey isn't thorough.) The tapping is getting to him, no question. He's pressed his hands against the glass, tried to feel the reverberations, but nothing. It doesn't matter how many times he's switched sides, how many angles he's checked. It doesn't make sense.
He's visited the office, of course. He's tried the safe, obviously. It's either broken or custom built, with some trick to opening it he hasn't found yet. Someone clearly wanted in, anyway.
This time when he goes into the office, he comes back out with the chair from behind the desk. He doesn't exactly like what he's about to do--it seems a waste of something incredibly clever--but that tapping is back and it's making his hair stand on end. Maybe if he can at least find some sign of the trick in the broken glass--
And to that end, he hefts the chair and braces his feet. ] Allons-y I guess. [ And then he chucks the chair through one of the front windows. ]
[ Neal's found the bulletin board. He's perused the notes, written down the equations, copied over the strange symbols onto a piece of paper to mull over later. Some kind of code? Maybe. Under his breath: ] You'd love this, Moz. Well. This part, anyway.
[ Where's a short, bald, near-sighted codebreaker when you need one?
He runs his fingertips over a few of the notes, inspects the push pins, tries the ink in the pens on a fresh piece of paper. The fact that there's no dust on the writing implements gives him the crawls in a big, big way.
Finally, finally, he turns his attention to that map. He's been avoiding it, avoiding it since it clicked what that rust-colored smear must be. But this is his area. Maybe not dating the blood--but he can figure out the map itself, at least. He fingers the paper, scratches at the ink, gets within inches of its surface to inspect it. Not close enough to touch that red smear. Hell no. Quietly:] Where did you come from, friend?