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December 2003
The card reached Elizabeth mere hours before Peter did. Neither of them made it by Christmas.
Peter had flown to Colorado on the fifteenth of December on the trail of wanted forger Neal Caffrey, and he’d promised to be home by Christmas Eve, whether he caught the guy or not. But Peter had called home early on the twenty-fourth, still at his hotel in Colorado Springs. He should’ve been on the road back to Denver for his flight home later that afternoon, but a blizzard was moving in, and they were expecting all flights to be canceled within the hour. Rather than risk not being able to find a room closer to the airport, he was staying put. Peter was very apologetic, but he’d already checked the local airport on the outside chance he’d have better luck there, and those flights had already been canceled. He offered to drive rather than entirely miss the holiday, but Elizabeth had put her foot down at that. It was a full day’s drive and then some under the best of circumstances, and she wasn’t going to risk her husband’s life, no matter how much she wanted to spend Christmas together.
By the twenty-sixth, the airport was operating again, but not at capacity. Peter spent all day waiting and arguing with ticket counter clerks and still couldn’t get a flight out for at least another twenty-four hours, maybe longer, since the storm had moved east and there were delays at the airports back at home. He was out of patience by then and decided to drive at least part of the way. He rented another car and asked El to get him a flight out of Kansas City first thing the next morning. An afternoon connecting flight was the best she could do, and after delays on every leg, it was almost noon on December twenty-eighth by the time Peter Burke finally walked into his Brooklyn home. It was the first holiday they’d spent apart in their four years of marriage, and besides being exhausted and frustrated, Peter was consumed with guilt. And, to top it all off, not only had he not caught up with Caffrey, but he was pretty sure the guy had ripped off a museum while he’d been in town. Peter was putting it down as the worst Christmas of his life.
It was late that evening before Peter saw the card. He had napped and snuggled with his wife. They’d had turkey sandwiches for dinner in front of the Christmas tree and finally exchanged their gifts. He was returning from the kitchen with cups of eggnog when he glanced over at the mantel and saw the colored pencil sketch on the front flap. Curious, he moved around for a closer look. Then he almost dropped the eggnog as he recognized the scene.
Quickly depositing the cups onto the dining table, Peter snatched the card to examine it more closely. The picture showed a run of the mill hotel in Colorado—the hotel he’d just checked out of two days ago. The building was outlined with brightly colored holiday lights, and a plastic snowman was serving as doorman, a hand raised in jolly greeting to all who entered. The tree in the lobby was just barely visible through the front glass door, red and gold ornaments spread nicely throughout the limbs, white lights glowing from deep within. He thought the decorations looked a lot more festive than they had in reality.
But the part that really got to him was the room on the second story, two doors down from the end, drapes open. He could see himself sitting at the small, utilitarian desk, phone pressed to his ear with a take-out meal spread across the desktop, and El’s framed picture visible on the corner, directly in his line of sight. Only his profile was visible in the drawing, but the loving smile on his face was apparent. They’d had Christmas Eve dinner ‘together’ that night, he and Elizabeth, making the best of a bad situation. Until this very moment, Peter had considered it a good memory.
Hand shaking with a growing rage, he flipped open the card and saw the perfectly lettered note.
Dear Elizabeth,
I am so sorry Peter is going to miss Christmas at home because of me. Please believe that I never intended to interfere with your holiday. I will make sure it doesn’t happen again.
Best wishes for the new year,
NC
“Elizabeth!”
At Peter’s bellow, Elizabeth rushed over from the living room. “Peter, what’s wro—oh. You saw the card.” The concern had vanished from her face immediately, and she was smiling. “I was going to show it to you tomorrow when you were more rested.”
“El, do you know who this is from?” Peter was trying to control his temper; he didn’t want to yell at his wife.
She looked at him patiently. “I assumed the NC was for Neal Caffrey. That is who you took off chasing after, right?” She reached over and pried the card from his fingers. “You’re crushing it,” she scolded.
“Elizabeth! This is not okay; the man is a felon! He cannot be sending you Christmas cards. I’m so sorry he dragged you into this.” Peter pulled her suddenly into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.
“Peter.” Elizabeth pulled back to look at him. “You’re starting to scare me. I thought you said he wasn’t violent?”
“He isn’t,” he answered quickly. “At least, I don’t think he is. But he’s still a criminal, El. I don’t want him anywhere near you.”
“He wasn’t near me, Peter; this came in the mail, just earlier today. And besides, it’s beautiful. It almost makes me feel like we were together for Christmas, seeing what you were doing.” She quirked a quizzical eyebrow. “I mean, that is what you were doing? He didn’t just make that up?”
“He didn’t make it up. He was obviously watching me.”
“Oh.” El’s hand came up to cover her mouth in surprise. She hadn’t exactly thought of it like that. “But he’s not dangerous? Even to you?”
Forcing himself to relax, Peter pulled her close again. “Not dangerous,” he assured her quietly, “even to me.”
“That’s good.” El tilted her head up to give him a soft kiss. “That’s very good.” Then she smiled again. “So, can I keep it? It’s not evidence of any crime, right?”
Peter groaned. “El . . .”
“It’s beautiful,” she repeated, blue eyes glowing.
“As long as you promise not to frame it and put it on display.”
Elizabeth’s happy kisses convinced him he’d made the right decision.
Back at work the next day, Peter shut himself in his office and reached out to every single street snitch he’d ever known, telling each of them he wanted to get a message to Caffrey.
“It’s simple,” he repeated on call after call. “My wife is off-limits.”
Several weeks later, Peter received a delivery at the office, dropped off with his stack of inter-office envelopes and most wanted bulletins. The sturdy envelope stood out, as did the perfect penmanship in the address and the fact that it had no postmark. So, either Caffrey was back in town and playing with fire, or he had someone loyal enough to walk into Federal Plaza for him. From what Peter could tell after chasing the guy for almost a year, either scenario was possible.
He opened the envelope quickly, not worrying about preserving it for evidence; it’s not like he didn’t know who sent it. The card he withdrew was a heavyweight, linen-textured paper, its cream color the perfect contrast to the forest green envelope. This time, seeing a colored drawing on the front cover didn’t surprise him.
A lone figure stood on the card, a young man—almost a boy, really—lanky, dark-haired, and ivory-skinned. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, and his head was bowed down, but his blue eyes looked up beseechingly from beneath long eyelashes. It didn’t look enough like Caffrey to hang on a post office wall, but enough that Peter got the idea. Inside, the message was short and to the point.
Dear Peter,
I apologize for overstepping. It won’t happen again.
NC
Peter tried hard not to smile as he slid the card down into his briefcase. He knew El would want to see it.
December 2004
Peter wasn’t even surprised when he saw the snowflake themed envelope in the pile of mail on his desk. After almost two years chasing Caffrey, he realized he would’ve been surprised if there wasn’t a card. But it was only December second; someone was being diligent with his holiday mailing this year.
This time, the card’s muted colors showed a picture of Peter’s own home, set in a not-quite-dark evening. The roof was strung with a single strand of large, bright white light bulbs, there was garland wrapped around the stair railings, and a wreath with a perfect red bow hanging on the door. None of those things were actually adorning his home, and Peter wondered if the guy was somehow trying to shame him. El had been asking for decorations since the weekend before Thanksgiving, but he still hadn’t found the time. Below the house, in perfect calligraphy, the caption on the card read Home for the Holidays.
Inside, Neal had written:
Dear Peter,
I haven’t forgotten the promise I made to your wife last year. I am currently vacationing far outside FBI jurisdiction and will be spending my holiday simply enjoying the holiday; I swear on Santa’s elves.
Merry Christmas,
NC
P.S. Don’t worry, I looked up pictures of your house online; I haven’t forgotten the promise I made to you, either.
Peter grinned as he tucked the card inside one of the file folders he’d set aside to take home. Maybe he’d have time to get to those decorations after all.
December 2005
Peter looked through the last of the mail that had been left on his desk that morning, the last delivery he would receive before Christmas, and found himself inexplicably disappointed. He didn’t know what he had expected; Neal Caffrey had been in prison for a few months now, so the days of hand-drawn greeting cards from an impish felon were over. For some reason, he didn’t seem to be adjusting well to that.
Between Christmas cards, phone calls, food sent to surveillance vehicles, and any other thing Caffrey could think of to tease the agent chasing him, the past three years had never been boring. In fact, they had almost been . . . fun. Even so, Peter had thought finally putting the man away would close the book, and he’d move on, like every other case. But he was realizing that was hard to do with Caffrey, that somehow the kid had managed to invade his everyday thoughts. Other criminals were, in fact, boring now; other heists had no style; he wished for the occasional pizza to show up during a stakeout. And, now, he apparently missed the Christmas cards.
Knowing he was being ridiculous, Peter gave his head a rough shake and turned his attention back to the case file in front of him.
He arrived home early that evening; even Peter Burke wasn’t above shirking a little responsibility on the Friday before a long holiday weekend. Elizabeth met him at the door with a quick kiss, a gleeful look in her eyes, and one hand tucked mysteriously behind her back.
“What are you up to?” Peter grinned at her as he hung up his coat.
“We got something today.” She was almost bouncing in anticipation.
Peter laughed lightly at her eagerness. “Okay. What is it?”
She presented the envelope to him with a bit of fanfare. “Ta-da!
“I know you were hoping he’d write,” she continued as Peter took the red envelope from her hand.
The first thing Peter noticed was the return address, which, by regulation, included the name of the prison and Caffrey’s inmate register number. The sight didn’t bring as much satisfaction as he might have expected. Then he noticed his own address.
“This was sent to both of us.” There was a hint of threat in his low voice. Not that he was worried about Caffrey, not anymore; it was the principle of the thing at this point.
“Peter,” El chided as she pushed her husband toward the sofa, “it’s a Christmas card. And it’s a card you were looking forward to receiving. He stayed away from me, just like you told him to, but he’s in prison now. I don’t think there’s much harm in a holiday greeting addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Peter Burke. Now open it up, and let’s see what he has to say.”
Peter exhaled loudly as he sank onto the couch. “You’re probably right.” Then he grinned when Elizabeth sat down right beside him and nudged the envelope. She’d been enjoying Caffrey’s random correspondence almost as much as Peter had. And if he were honest, she’d probably been getting a little tired of his near mopey behavior since the kid had been locked up. He kissed her cheek, then ripped open the envelope.
They both chuckled when they first saw the card, but then El said, “Oh, hon, that’s so sad.”
The drawing showcased a room that looked like a North Pole version of the Burke living room. (Peter didn’t even want to think about how Caffrey knew what the inside of their house looked like.) A fire was going in the fireplace, and Elizabeth, in the role of Mrs. Claus, was sitting in front of it, sipping hot chocolate. But her affectionate gaze was directed at Santa Peter, who was stretched out in an easy chair, fast asleep. Falling from his dangling hand was a parchment scroll showing a list of names; NAUGHTY was emblazoned at the top. The list was made up of half a dozen names of suspects from Peter’s cases, including Caffrey’s own; all but one had a checkmark next to it. Peter also didn’t want to think about how Caffrey got that information or how he knew they were still investigating one Samuel Jacobson.
In the background of the picture, outside the warm glow of the fire, sat a miniature Neal, styled as an elf. He was hunched over a workbench, but instead of a toy, he was hammering out a license plate. Upon closer inspection, Peter could make out the lettering on the plate: PB1-NC0.
Elizabeth was right. It was kind of sad. He almost didn’t want to see whatever the kid had written. But El gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, so he opened the card and read aloud:
Dear Peter and Elizabeth,
Merry Christmas! I know you probably thought you were through with me, at least for a few years, but what would the fun be in that? I must admit, I preferred my vacation plan, but I am glad to know that you two will be able to enjoy your holidays together.
Have a glass of eggnog for me,
NC
P.S. Peter, I still haven’t forgotten my promise and mean no disrespect. You know where to find me if you feel the need to deliver another message.
Afterward, there was a moment of silence, and then Elizabeth said, “Peter Burke, you better not be thinking about delivering a message to that poor boy!”
Peter smiled at her, though it held a hint of regret. “He’s not a boy, El; he’s a convicted felon. But, no, no message. He really is harmless.”
Elizabeth pulled the card gently from Peter’s hand, then slouched back into the sofa, studying the drawing again. “There’s so much detail,” she commented, noticing mistletoe dangling from the ceiling between the living and dining rooms, stockings hanging on the mantel, the candy cane stick in her cup of hot chocolate. “He’s really very talented.”
“Yeah,” Peter sighed as he leaned back next to her. “That’s the hell of it. So much wasted potential.”
She took his hand, and they sat quietly for a while, transfixed by the small drawing.
“You should write back to him,” El said suddenly.
But Peter barked out a disbelieving laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” She scooted around to look at him more directly. “You never knew where he was before; that’s hardly an issue now.”
“FBI agents don’t correspond with the criminals they put away,” he told her, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“They also don’t recommend lenient sentencing to the prosecutor or ask the warden to keep an eye on a particular inmate, but none of that stopped you.”
Peter slanted a glare in her direction. “I’m not writing to him, El.”
Recognizing a hard no in the tone, Elizabeth just sighed. “He’s just a kid,” she said softly.
“He is,” Peter agreed, reaching an arm to pull her against his chest. “That means he’ll have his whole life to make better choices when he gets out.”
She relaxed against him. “I hope so,” she said as she held up the card again, still admiring.
January 2007
At first, when Christmas passed without a card, Peter assumed Caffrey was finally tired of the game. After all, there was nothing to be gained by continuing the taunts; Peter had already won. Of course, the kid had sent the agent a birthday card earlier that year and an anniversary card for the two of them, so there’d been no indication Caffrey was giving up whatever crusade he was waging with his correspondence. Still, Peter hadn’t been too concerned. But the day after Christmas, El had badgered him until he’d agreed to call the prison and make sure everything was okay. And that’s how Peter discovered Neal Caffrey was spending two weeks in solitary confinement following a fight with two other inmates. He had not enjoyed breaking that news to his wife.
He was even less pleased the next day when he made a few more calls and found out there was a very real possibility that the ‘fight’ had actually been Neal defending himself against an assault and that it wasn’t the first time he’d had to fight off someone who was getting handsy. But Caffrey wasn’t talking, and one of the other inmates had ended up in the infirmary, so the warden had seen no alternative to punishment. Peter felt helpless—he was helpless. He had contacts at the prison but no real authority, so there was nothing he could do. The warden did at least say they would move Neal to a single cell, which should provide him a little more safety. The only good news was that Neal had been successful in his self-defense. He was a little banged up, but his attackers hadn’t gotten what they were after. Peter didn’t share any of those further details with El.
But the first week of January, a shiny gold envelope arrived in the mail. Elizabeth didn’t wait for Peter to open it, and the card was standing up on the coffee table when he got home that night. He snatched it up and sat down on the edge of the couch to read it.
The drawing was obviously rushed. Still good art, but not as detailed as the others had been, and there was nothing personal about it. Instead, it was a cascade of fireworks against a night sky, with a large 2007 underneath the bursts of light. The inside wasn’t any better.
Dear Peter and Elizabeth,
I hope this finds you well and that you had a very merry Christmas. Please know that I wish you both the very best in the new year.
NC
It was a shadow of the typical Caffrey correspondence, and Peter stared at it, feeling his worry and frustration grow, knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it. He didn’t even hear Elizabeth step into the room until she said, “Oh, hon.”
Peter looked up, and his own feelings were forgotten when he saw that she’d been crying. He rose and crossed to her quickly. Taking her face in his hands, he thumbed away the tears that were beginning again. “It’s okay, hon, he’s okay. Don’t worry, please.”
Instead of answering, Elizabeth buried her face in his chest, and Peter just held her, letting her cry.
Later that night, as they lay in bed, Elizabeth snuggled close against him, Peter said, “I’m sorry you got involved in this at all. I’m going to tell him not to write anymore.”
El moved away from him so quickly, Peter got an elbow to the kidney. He let out a muffled grunt as Elizabeth sat up, glaring at him through the darkness while she gathered the sheet around her. “You will do no such thing!” she told him angrily.
Ignoring the pain in his side, Peter rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow to face her. “Elizabeth—”
“Peter.” The tone shut him up, and El reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, then turned back to her clueless husband. “Why in the world would you cut him off now?”
“Look, El, I feel bad for the kid, I do, but I love you, and this is upsetting you.” He sat up and gazed at her openly. “And, Elizabeth, he’s gonna be in that place for another few years; things could get a lot worse.”
“Of course they could get worse, Peter,” she spat out, exasperation just barely contained. “Which is all the more reason not to abandon him.”
“I’d hardly call it abandoning him,” Peter replied, growing defensive. “He’s not my responsibility, and I never asked him to be my pen pal. Every single problem he’s got is his own fault. He’s a criminal, El; criminals go to prison, and it’s not supposed to be fun.”
“And I suppose he asked those guys to attack him? That’s his fault, too, Peter?”
“He—what?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Do you think I’m stupid? You chased him for three years, Peter, and once you got to really know him, all I ever heard was what a breath of fresh air he was because he never resorted to any sort of violence in his crimes. And now suddenly he’s in solitary because he was fighting? With two other inmates? Surely, you didn’t expect me to believe that was unprovoked.”
Peter took a moment to marvel at her deductive skills; El’s brain was almost as beautiful as the rest of her. “They don’t know for sure what happened,” he finally said, “but, yeah, odds are it was self-defense.”
“Then why did he end up in solitary?” she demanded.
“Because he wouldn’t talk,” Peter snapped back, his own exasperation slipping out. “He was too stubborn to complain.” Then he sighed and reached out and took her hand. “But, El, I promise you, he’s all right. He wasn’t hurt.”
Elizabeth let several beats pass while she watched Peter’s eyes, then she asked for the reassurance again. “You’re sure he’s okay?”
Peter nodded emphatically. “I’m sure.” When it seemed she was calming, he breathed in deeply and gently asked, “El . . . why does it matter?”
She looked surprised at the question, but she smiled. “It matters to you,” she pointed out. “He matters to you. And, Peter, it seems like you matter to him. He might not really be your responsibility, but he’s latched onto you for some reason. I know prison isn’t supposed to be fun,” she laughed as Peter shook his head at hearing his own words thrown back at him, “but it is supposed to be rehabilitation. If thinking you’re on his side even a little bit could help him . . .” She let the thought hang for a minute as Peter’s resolve visibly weakened, then added, “Besides, I think it’s sweet he looks up to you.”
“Neal Caffrey does not look up to me,” Peter huffed.
“If you say so. But you’ll let him keep sending the cards, right?”
“If he makes you cry again, I’ll drive out there and throw him in solitary myself,” Peter muttered as the last of his resistance melted under her piercing blue eyes.
“I love you, too,” El answered as she let him pull her back down with him.
December 2007
Peter was exhausted when he finally made it back home. He understood intellectually that crime never stopped, but he thought it might be nice if the bad guys could at least dial it back a little during the holidays. Especially the ones who made their livings siphoning off the bank accounts of the average citizen. They’d finally arrested one such scum today, but not before fifty-four families had their accounts drained. Of course, the banks were insured, but reimbursement would take time, and that was an awful lot of people who weren’t going to be able to put presents under the tree this year. If he’d been able to crack the case more quickly, he could’ve protected at least half of them, but he and his team just hadn’t been able to put all the pieces together. And though they had arrested the guy responsible here in the city, there were indications it was a network of people pulling the same scam across the country, and they hadn’t yet been able to pull down the entire operation. Sometimes Peter wondered if he was accomplishing anything at all.
The house was dark when he stepped inside, but that was usually the case when he didn’t drag in until after midnight. El had long ago quit waiting up for him, knowing that his job often came with unreasonable hours. Even Satchmo barely raised his head to see who was coming inside. His tail slapped once against his bed cushion in greeting, and then the Lab went back to sleep.
With a weary sigh, Peter hung his overcoat on the nearest hook then shuffled toward the kitchen. As he passed through the room, he flipped the switch that brought the Christmas tree to light. At least he’d have a little holiday ambiance while he enjoyed a beer before bed.
But his mood lifted perceptibly as soon as he opened the fridge. Propped up in front of his six-pack was an envelope adorned with sprigs of holly and familiar handwriting. He smiled as he grabbed a bottle and the card, amused that El knew just where he’d go first after such a long night. And apparently, Caffrey’s timing was impeccable in everything, not just his heists.
Forgoing the tree’s subtle illumination, Peter turned on the dining room light and seated himself at the table. But first things first; before he opened the card, he twisted the cap off the beer and drank deeply, letting the cool liquid soothe him, then he set the bottle on the opposite side of the table, safely away from the envelope. When he pulled the card out into view, his breath caught. Caffrey’s timing wasn’t just impeccable, it was . . . well, for just a split-second, Peter wondered if maybe it wasn’t telepathic. Then in the next instant, he decided he’d almost prefer telepathy to whatever method Caffrey actually had for keeping tabs on the outside world—Peter’s world. But he couldn’t deny that looking at the picture in front of him immediately made him feel like a weight had been lifted.
The drawing’s background was the New York City skyline under a blue sky, sun shining brightly. Further forward, in front of the buildings, smiling people were going about their business—carrying bags with wrapped gifts poking out, ice skating, trimming trees in a park, there was even a group of kids caroling. At one side of the card, there was a glorious holiday gala taking place, attendees dressed in their holiday best, dancing, drinking, laughing, and Elizabeth was overseeing the party, looking radiant in a red satin, floor-length gown, a diamond and ruby necklace drawing attention to the tastefully cut but incredibly sexy neckline.
At the forefront of the card was a small group of indistinct shadow figures stretching toward the city but frozen in place, unable to reach their target.
But it was the remaining figure that really captured Peter’s attention—and maybe just a little bit of his heart. Santa Peter had made a reappearance, but this year he was upright, looking larger than life in front of the city and its citizens, standing between them and the shadows. He stood with his legs spread slightly apart, hands on his hips, head turned slightly toward the distance with his chin jutted out, face set in determination but a twinkle in his brown eyes. He was dressed in a somewhat more tailored version of a traditional Santa suit—less fur trim, slimmer pant legs, smaller belt—with a red velvet cloak draped around his shoulders, clasped at the neck. And pinned to his chest, just above his heart, a shiny golden badge shaped like a Christmas star, and printed on the star in perfect block letters so small Peter had to squint to make them out: FIDELITY, BRAVERY, INTEGRITY.
Peter stared at it for close to five minutes, soaking it in, feeling it, letting it soothe his soul more than a cold beer could ever hope to do. Finally, he opened the card.
Dear Peter and Elizabeth,
Merry Christmas! I hope that the two of you have wonderful celebrations planned. Peter, that means take your wife someplace you have to dress up, maybe dancing. Even Super Santa Special Agents need a night out from time to time.
Have a glass of eggnog for me,
NC
Peter smiled to himself and made a note to find out if his tux needed to be pressed; he feared a fancy evening of dining and dancing was definitely on his schedule now. With the power of Neal Caffrey on her side, he knew El would never take no for an answer.
December 2008
The day after the Burkes returned from visiting Elizabeth’s parents for Christmas, the letter carrier dropped off the bundle of mail that had been held for the week they’d been away. Elizabeth just smiled as Peter immediately collected it from the box and began sorting through it right away, making piles on the dining room table. He was very diligent about separating bills from personal from junk, but he wasn’t fooling anyone about what he was actually looking for, and once his hands closed around the thick envelope with a snowman on the outside, he set the rest of the mail aside.
He looked up at her and grinned. “Don’t pretend you’re not interested. This will probably be the last one, you know.”
“That’s kind of sad,” El said as she dragged over a chair to sit next to him. “But I’m happy for him. Okay, let’s see what we get for the sendoff.”
It was immediately apparent that they weren’t the only ones thinking about the next holiday season.
Peter and Elizabeth were in their North Pole living room again, though this time they were simply themselves instead of the Clauses. They were dressed casually in jeans and holiday sweaters that were more festive than ugly. There was a decorated tree glowing in the corner and a fire blazing while they danced under mistletoe, eyes only for each other, frozen in the moment just before a kiss.
Far behind them, Neal was inside a giant snow globe, sitting at a small table, concentrating on the paper in front of him. Though his enclosure did, in fact, have snow, there were no other decorations, and the only sign of holiday celebration was the card he was drawing—a miniature replica of the card that Peter now held in his hands. Pushed to the far side of the table was a multi-year calendar. It began in 2005, the year Neal had gone to prison, and included each month through December 2009. Each of the past months was marked out with a big red X, and on next year’s December square, there was a simple sketch of Neal with a young brunette woman. He was gazing at her in open adoration while they decorated a small Christmas tree, and in the opposite corner of the box, Peter and El laughed together while trimming their own tree.
“That’s Kate,” Peter told Elizabeth.
“The one you used to trap him?”
Peter thought he heard an undercurrent of accusation. “The one I used to arrest a wanted felon, yeah.”
“He still loves her.” El smiled. “He really is sweet. Do you think she’ll be waiting for him? I’d hate to think he got himself captured because of her and then waited all this time only for her to break his heart.”
“I think you might be having a hard time with the felon idea,” Peter teased with a warm smile. “This isn’t some kind of romantic comedy, you know.” When Elizabeth didn’t seem amused, he hurried to add, “But, yeah, she’s been visiting him every week. Looks like he might actually get his happy ending eventually.” He flipped the card open to see what sort of season’s greetings the felon had sent this year.
Dear Peter and Elizabeth,
Merry Christmas! I hope your holiday travels were safe and uneventful and your family visit pleasant.
I don’t know what future holidays hold for me (except that they won’t involve maximum security, so, Peter, you don’t have to worry), but I wanted you to know that I’ve enjoyed making these cards for you and I hope they’ve brought you at least a little holiday cheer. And who knows? Maybe someday, a Caffrey original will actually be worth something.
Have one last glass of eggnog for me, and next year I will return the favor,
NC
“Should we be concerned that he always knows so much about us?” El asked.
“If it were anyone besides Caffrey,” Peter said, “probably; but for him, I’m not worried. Information is his stock in trade, but we’re not his marks; he’s just showing off.”
“At least it sounds like he plans on going straight when he gets out. You should feel good about that, hon.”
But Peter scoffed at the idea. “It sounds like he’s not planning on getting caught again, at least. I won’t feel good about anything until he’s out and proven himself.”
Elizabeth laughed as she patted his hand. “Well, no matter what, at least we got some Caffrey originals out of the deal.”
December 2009
“It was a nice evening,” Elizabeth said as they locked up the house then slowly climbed the stairs toward bed. “I’m glad Neal came over, but I still wish he would spend tomorrow with us. It’s his first Christmas out of prison; are you sure he’ll be okay alone?”
“He’s got a little friend that I’m sure will keep him company. He’ll be fine.”
“I just think—what’s this?” She leaned down to get the envelope that had been propped against their bedroom door. She held it up with a smile. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Only one way to find out.” Peter took the offered envelope, and they moved to sit on the bed to open it.
The front of the card was covered with a variety of vignettes. None of them were quite as detailed as the previous cards, but these weren’t imaginings; almost all of them were depictions of memories. There was Neal walking out of prison toward Peter, holding up his pant leg to show off his newly acquired tracking anklet. The three of them around the Burke dining table, laughing over open containers of Chinese food. Neal on the floor with Satchmo. Peter and Elizabeth on Neal’s terrace, surrounded by palm trees and party lights. On a stakeout, Peter with a sandwich and Neal making an origami animal. At the Met, El and Neal examining sculptures. The three of them exchanging presents in front of the Burkes’ Christmas tree (amazingly, this one was obviously sketched sometime this evening as all three of them were shown in the actual clothes they’d been wearing). They were an encapsulation of the short time since Neal had been released from prison into the custody of Peter and the FBI.
But the final scene was a recreation of the card Neal had drawn years before. Peter was once again defending the city against the shadows, only this time he wasn’t Santa, but the equally impressive Special Agent Peter Burke, and Neal stood at his shoulder, ready to do battle with the darkness if necessary.
Peter and Elizabeth exchanged a smile before opening the card to see the message.
Dear Peter and Elizabeth,
Some traditions are worth continuing, no matter how they begin.
Thank you for the eggnog. And everything else.
NC
El leaned against her husband, resting her head on his shoulder. “You feeling good about this yet?”
Peter pulled her even closer. “I’m getting there.”
December 2015
When Elizabeth saw the handwriting on the manila envelope, she froze, staring at it silently for almost two full minutes before finally snapping out of her reverie.
“Peter,” she called up the stairs, “you need to see this!”
“I’ll be down in just a bit, hon,” he called back.
“Peter! You need to come see this now!”
That got Peter’s attention, and he scrambled down the stairs. “What is it, hon? I barely got Neal into bed after all those candy canes today; I’m not sure he’ll—”
“It’s Neal,” El interrupted.
Peter’s face clouded. “What about him? He might get a stomach ache, but—”
“No. Peter. It’s Neal.”
Only then did he notice the large envelope in her hand—the envelope that he could see had not been opened. “Are you sure?”
She shot a glare at him, then pushed the envelope into his outstretched hand. “I’m sure.”
He didn’t look at the envelope, just took her hand and silently led her to the sofa. After several tumultuous years of having Neal Caffrey as his CI—and as his best friend—the past three years had been painfully empty. At first, they’d believed Neal had died, and they had mourned their friend; Peter had taken the loss particularly hard. Then, after a year of grief, they had realized Neal was still alive, but their delight at the discovery had been immediately tempered once they understood why Neal had felt it necessary to fake his death and disappear. And, unfortunately, once he knew the whole story—or at least most of it—Peter had agreed that it was best for everyone if Neal Caffrey stayed dead. So, the last two years had been a different sort of sadness, adjusting to the idea that their friend was somewhere in the world, but they didn’t know where and were unlikely to ever see him again.
But now, here was an envelope, arriving like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Peter stared at it, realizing it was shaking in his hand. “I’m almost afraid to open it,” he whispered. He wouldn’t say this to Elizabeth, but he’d thought the next time he would hear from Neal might well be when an attorney (or Mozzie) carried out some sort of ‘in the event of my death’ final wish. Peter wasn’t sure he could survive losing Neal like that a second time.
“Hon, we need to know,” El said softly. She probably didn’t need him to say it to understand his fears.
Nodding slowly, Peter ripped open the envelope. Inside were two other envelopes, one a smaller manila envelope, obviously filled with even more . . . something, and the more traditional card-sized envelope they’d received from him for almost a decade. On that one was a small sticky note that said OPEN ME FIRST.
So, suddenly overcome with what felt like a lifetime of memories, Peter ripped open the plain white envelope and pulled out the card. The soft colors brought a smile to his lips before he even really looked at the picture. God, he’d missed this.
“It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth gasped.
Only then did he take the time to truly look at the drawing on the front of the card. And it was beautiful.
There were snow-covered mountains shadowing a calm, picturesque lake, and at the edge of the lake, there was a castle—an actual friggin’ medieval castle. Beyond the castle, there was a cheerful holiday market in what appeared to be a town square type area. There were dozens of individual huts lined up in the square, each of them brightly lit, and together they created a glow that radiated above the town. There were white lights strung in trees along the streets, greenery everywhere, and a large colorful Ferris wheel overlooked it all.
“Where do you think that is?” El asked. “And do you think it’s where he’s living?”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t know. Austria? Switzerland? Who knows? And he could be living anywhere.” At first, when he’d discovered Neal’s deception, Peter had thought his friend was in Paris, but it was the one real secret he’d ever kept from his wife. He was sure if Elizabeth had a viable clue for where Neal was living, she would want to go look for him, regardless of the danger, and back then, when the memory of his raw grief was so fresh, Peter hadn’t been sure he would’ve been able to withstand her wishes. So, he had stuck to the literal truth and told her he didn’t know where Neal was.
But he had been thinking lately that maybe it was safe enough now to begin a search. The pink panther organization had been decimated, the members locked up with no hope of parole, and their appeals had been exhausted. And just a few months ago, Alan Woodford, the group’s leader, had been killed in prison. Woodford had been the primary threat, but not the only threat, so he wasn’t sure Neal would agree that things were safer now—and the man almost surely wouldn’t agree to come home yet, which was Peter’s ultimate goal. But if he was reaching out, Peter hoped that meant Neal was also starting to feel maybe it was time his self-imposed exile should come to an end.
“Hon,” Elizabeth nudged his arm, “open it up.”
“Oh, sorry. I was just—”
“I know, hon, me, too. But let’s see what he has to say.”
Peter sucked in a breath and flipped open the card.
Dear Peter and Elizabeth,
Merry Christmas! How I have missed saying that to you.
I know this is a surprise, and there is so much I want to say—that I have wanted to say for years. But for now, I will simply say, I wish you were here . . . but I will understand if you aren’t.
I’ll bring the eggnog.
Always,
NC
Peter turned to Elizabeth, feeling a slow grin spread, and saw his same goofy expression mirrored on her face.
“Open the other one!” El urged, her blue eyes alight with happiness.
He didn’t have to be told a second time, and he quickly ripped open the small manila envelope. He pulled out the stack of papers inside and flipped through them quickly—plane tickets to Geneva, train reservations to Montreux, and a hotel confirmation for two weeks.
Also included were three passports for Peter Nevins and his family, the ID that matched the names on all the tickets. Peter thought that through. Traveling under a false identity was illegal, but Neal obviously didn’t yet believe it was safe for him to openly associate with anyone from his past. It was a risk either way, but Peter knew he didn’t have the right to unilaterally decide to expose Neal to a risk he wasn’t ready to take. Besides, he had no doubt that if he tried to book travel in his own name, Neal would disappear again long before his old handler could ever reach Montreux.
He looked at Elizabeth again, but her eyes were still glowing. There was little doubt in his mind which way she was leaning, but he asked her anyway. “What are you thinking, El?”
“I’m thinking it’s been three years, Peter, and he’s never even met our son.”
“You know it’s a felony.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “You know my vote. The only question is what you’re thinking.”
Peter breathed in and out slowly and deliberately, considering, but after about ten seconds, he realized his hesitation was nothing more than pretense; he was fooling himself. There was no real choice here. He’d risked at least as much for Neal Caffrey many times before, with far less reason, far less to be gained. And El was right; three years was a long time. Too long. He picked up the drawing again and smiled at his wife.
“I’m thinking there are worse things than Switzerland for Christmas. And I really have missed these cards.”
~END~