Save Me If You Can

Save Me If You Can Chapter 8

From chapter 7:

He began to panic, feel closed in. He wasn't ready for this. He needed a way out. He sat up, got up and sauntered toward the bathroom. As expected, Jones intercepted him at the door. He gave Jones a quick look, and noted the agent's service weapon at his side. It would be nothing to feign a stumble and fall against Jones, and lift the gun from the holster...

Chapter 8

Shamus's voice was ringing in Neal's foggy head like a klaxon. "You're going to want to use, and if it means taking out one of your friends..."

"I wouldn't hurt them."

"Yes you will. I've seen it...."

The palm of his right hand itched as he anticipated the smooth, cool feel of the unfriendly gun slipping into his grip. His body twitched uncontrollably – once, twice – as he stopped before Agent Jones. Could this man who had become his friend see the dark strategy written on Neal's face? It was more than possible that he, this tested and seasoned lawman, had already foreseen Neal's desperate maneuver and cultivated a tactic to thwart it. Success for Neal would mean that Jones would not even know what had happened until he pointed Jones' own gun at him. Failure would mean a quick and painful beat down, handcuffs, harsh words, and humiliation. Maybe even a bullet. A mercy, Neal thought. Eventually, they would all see his unworthiness, his corruption, his deceit, and they would abandon him. Leave him alone to suffer, die and rot.

Forgotten, the monster roared inside his head.

Neal had to free himself before this miserable portent could play itself out.

"I wouldn't hurt them..."

"Yes you will..."

Neal closed his eyes tightly. Could he truly do this and not hurt them? Could he truly point a gun at Jones, or Sara, or Mozzie? What would they think of him? And what would Peter do to him when he eventually caught up with him? Because Peter would surely catch Neal again.

"Hey," he said anemically to Jones. He was shivering and trying to hide it. Trying to smile that charming, prepossessing smile that warmed people to him and left them naïve and vulnerable to his schemes.

"What's up, Neal?" Jones asked.

Neal had no true intention of hurting Jones or anyone else. He wouldn't even put his finger on the trigger, he promised himself. He couldn't risk it; his hands were too shaky and the monster - so unpredictable - might make him flinch, or miscalculate. His tortured mind could not handle the thought of such tragedy.

"You okay, Caffrey?" asked Jones. "You look a little weird. You should go back and lie down."

Jones was suspicious, Neal could see it. Better to make his move now, he thought. Another moment's hesitation would mean failure and ruin. Jones was all that stood between him and the elevator that lead to freedom from more pain.

Neal did not have to fake his stumble.

He began convulsing.

He had never been so wholly out of control before. Every part of his physical being was moving to its own wrenching, jerking, staccato rhythm. His head flew back hard and his body followed. He fell backwards onto the floor like a heavy stone. The back of his head slammed on the wood finished floor. Neal could do nothing but go with what his body was doing. It was no longer his own.

The monster shook him ruthlessly, relentlessly. He went rigid, thick veins bulging in his distended neck and arms, fingers curled tightly like claws, teeth clenched so hard that he could hear them screeching and grinding together and imagined they were turning to powder. It was if his body was experiencing one hideous Charlie Horse in every joint and muscle at once. He wanted to cry out, but the expletives in his head remained trapped and unable to find their way to his mouth. Spittle foamed and shot between his tensely curled lips.