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Neal was home in his loft enjoying a bit of downtime from the White Collar office. He was just getting over a mild case of the flu and Peter had insisted that he stay home until he was no longer contagious and putting his teammates at risk. At seven-o'clock that particular evening, Neal’s handler was knocking on the con man’s door. He didn’t have chicken soup in his hand. Instead, Peter was scowling and gripping some files.

“What’s up, Peter?” Neal asked curiously as he eyed the manila folders. “Are you bringing me some homework while I’m playing hooky from school?”

“Not really what I’d call homework,” Peter said mysteriously, “but maybe I do need your take on this.”

Without any further enlightenment, Peter swept over to the table and began laying out some photos of what Neal immediately recognized as old works of Spanish artist, Pablo Picasso. They were a series of simple line drawings done by the exalted master who pioneered Cubism during his long career. The first was readily recognizable as a dachshund dog, it’s long body created with Picasso’s pen never leaving the paper. That could also be said for the second print which might be interpreted as either a well-rounded butt or a well-endowed scrotum. The third, a bit more intricate, had exactly four sweeps of ink that delineated the buttocks and upper thighs of a female form.

“It seems you have a theme going on here, Peter,” Neal murmured. “Maybe Picasso hoodwinked a lot of adoring sycophants during his days in the sun, but, somehow, I doubt that I’d ever include you in that bunch.”

“You’ve got that right, Buddy, “ Peter grumbled. “I guess I can honestly say that I like these better than most modern art because at least I have an idea of what I’m looking at and don’t have to guess. However, to my eye, it’s not really great art if some first-grader can easily duplicate it with their Crayola crayon.”

“So why do you need my help if you already know what sly old Picasso was trying to convey and you believe you could probably do better with your own Sharpie pen?” Neal asked.

Peter ignored Neal’s cynicism. “These are photos of three expensive drawings by the famed Cubist that a collector recently brought into a framer’s shop,” he began his explanation before being abruptly interrupted by the agitated resident artist in front of him.

“Seriously?” Neal groaned. “Pen and ink sketches should never be framed, Peter. That’s just an unforgivable sacrilege. To properly display them, they need to be behind a transparent shield that protects them from exposure to ultraviolet light, humidity, and changes in temperature. The only other possible accoutrement is an acid-free black background piece behind the work so that the true essence of the creation is enhanced without any other distraction.”

“That artistic faux pas is duly noted,” Peter said somberly. “Now, to get on with my story, while the framer was handling the sketches, it seemed that a tiny flake of dried ink on the booty one dropped from the heavier parts of the artist’s signature. Apparently, Picasso always used block letters for his signature and it was thicker than the lines of his drawings. The framer was an honest soul and immediately informed the new owner of the unfortunate accident. The owner talked with his authenticator who became suspicious of decades-old dried ink simply flaking off so haphazardly. He suspected that the piece was a forgery.”

“I guess this is the point where you ask that tired old question,” Neal sighed. “You want to know if it was one of my works.”

“Nope, I hate to disappoint you, Neal, but you’re off the hook for this one,” Peter smirked.

“Okay, so don’t keep me in suspense,” Neal said slowly. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because, my talented little forger, the Doubting Thomas authenticator had the miniscule particle tested to determine its approximate age. It was estimated to be around four years old and you were in prison at the time. But the guy was in for quite a shock, nonetheless, when he got more than he bargained for during the testing. He was informed that the ‘ink’ contained organic properties.”

Neal suddenly perked up. “Now this is getting interesting, Peter.”

“Damn straight, Buddy,” Peter agreed. “The black ink was just a vehicle used to conceal human blood, and when the lab got the results of DNA testing, those little strands of molecules were a match to a missing person—a young woman thought to have been abducted several years ago. The case was never solved, and her fate is still an unanswered question to this day.”

“Very macabre and weird,” Neal shuddered.

“Oh, but I’m not done yet,” Peter said darkly. “When the signatures on the other drawings were tested, more DNA was discovered belonging to two other dead women who washed up on shore in the Hudson.”

“Did the police demand to know where the three drawings originally came from?” Neal asked logically.

“Of course they did, and the present owner claimed they belonged to his recently deceased grandfather who had been a collector. He was the sole beneficiary of Granddad’s art that the old gent had been amassing for decades. Four years ago, that relative had Parkinson’s Disease that was quite advanced, so there’s no way he could have done the deed himself, and the grandson claims not to have any knowledge of where his grandfather picked up the occasional painting or etching.”

“This is over-the-top sick,” Neal said solemnly.

“Yep, it is,” Peter agreed. “Got any insights?”

“Now why would you even think I could get into the mind of a lethal psychopath who kills women?” Neal objected vehemently.

Peter sighed dramatically. “Calm down and stop being so touchy, Neal. You once told me that forgers obviously can’t take credit for their work, so they resort to sometimes hiding their identities in plain sight. That’s how you glommed onto Curtis Hagen, and, if I’m not mistaken, a lot of your knock-offs had the initials ‘NC’ cleverly concealed in the paintings. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I am not going to answer that for obvious reasons,” Neal told his handler firmly.

“Think, Buddy,” Peter cajoled. “Why add dead women’s blood into forged signatures?”

Neal frowned. “Maybe to privately revel in his cleverness. The evidence of his murderous crimes is looking everybody right in the face, but nobody sees it or even knows it’s there except for him, and he can relive the thrill of the kill knowing it’s being displayed somewhere. It’s like he can make unsuspecting owners complicit in his crimes without their knowledge. It’s perverted, but as good an explanation as any, I guess.”

“What if we upset the applecart for this monster, Neal?” Peter said enticingly.

“Am I going to like your plan?” Neal suddenly was wary.

“Maybe not, but I think you’ll want to help catch this depraved ghoul,” Peter answered.

“Why does that make me feel uneasy?” Neal asked in dread.

“Look, Buddy, I’ve run this by Hughes and he says it's probably a cockamamie scheme but he’s willing to back me up. We thought we’d put it out there that three possible Picasso forgeries have been unearthed, and Neal Caffrey, master thief and forger, is the suspected scam artist. The Bureau has placed you under house arrest until definitive proof is obtained. That will seem somewhat plausible because you have been absent from the office the last three days. Just to make it more enticing, we won’t mention anything about the human blood.”

“You want to use me as bait,” Neal grimaced. “Now I know why Hughes approved the proposal. You want to infuriate the killer because I’ll be stealing his thunder, and he won’t be able to stand that travesty. He’ll do something rash so that he can take the proper credit for his work. Did you ever think that he may kill again while I’m sequestered just to disprove the FBI’s theory—maybe after he kills me first for good measure?”

“I can put a protective detail on you 24/7,” Peter wheedled.

“Now why doesn’t that offer make me feel all warm and safe inside?” Neal groused sarcastically.

“You could stay with me,” Peter suggested.

“That would make you and Elizabeth targets, as well,” Neal countered.

Finally, the young man huffed out a defeated sigh. “I guess I should play my part in this little drama. I could actually ‘confess’ to being the forger, but don’t get used to that weird incongruity, Peter. In real life, you know I never confess to anything. However, in this instance, I can say that years ago while I was in prison, I did some innocent doodling that somebody smuggled out of Sing Sing and sold as the real deal. Because I wasn’t the one selling the forgeries, the FBI won’t be bringing charges against me.”

“Okay, I get it. You rattle the guy’s cage by taking credit for his work without any consequences being attached,” Peter agreed.

“No, actually, you rattle his cage, Peter,” Neal said slyly. “If you have a friendly source at the New York Times, feed the reporter a juicy, condescending story about how I dismissed the fakes as something that any moron with a pen could do with his eyes shut. Make me sound demeaning and dismissive while you stress how ingenious my other art was. Highlight the many masters the FBI thinks I may have forged. Tout my genius to the rooftops so that the killer gets pissed off and feels psychologically driven to come out of the woodwork to prove how talented and innovative he is.”

“Hopefully, he’ll be focused on you and not some other innocent young woman,” Peter mused.

Neal nodded. “We’ll wind him up so tightly that I think he may want to take me out of play in some dramatic way. Then he’ll be obsessed to blend his medium with another victim’s blood—mine. I think his endgame is to brazenly contact the FBI to gloat about his triumph and offer real proof in the form of actual DNA on some new painting.”

“I’m not going to minimize the danger, Neal,” Peter said softly. “It’s a treacherous game you’ll be playing with someone who is probably mentally deranged and lethal.”

“Been there; done that; and got the t-shirt,” Neal replied glibly. “I’m up for it, and I’m sure Hughes will be thrilled.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Everything went off as planned. There was even a picture in the newspaper of Agent Peter Burke and his CI standing shoulder to shoulder at the FBI office. Peter looked the part of a stern, no-nonsense taskmaster while Neal appeared smug, conceited, and thoroughly pleased with himself. The hook had been baited in a very public way.

During his off-hours from his job, Neal visibly made the solo circuit of upscale restaurants and bars just waiting for a pissed-off murderer to take the lure and run with it. Unfortunately, he never saw it coming. Instead, he only felt the electrifying jolt of a taser to his back as he made his way home from the gym one evening. Neal never even sensed the needle that entered his neck and brought down the curtain.

~~~~~~~~~~

The young CI found himself swimming back to consciousness sometime later, and he couldn’t be sure if it had been hours or days since he had been nonchalantly strolling along a dark street. He now found himself propped against a wall with his hands restrained with heavy chain to rings embedded in the cement floor. The wall was made of cinder block and there was just a little anemic illumination coming from a window with bars far across the room. Maybe this was a basement below street level, but it was eerily quiet with no sounds of car engines or beeping horns. Neal took stock of himself and found that his shirt and pants were intact, but it creeped him out that someone had manipulated his unconscious body and placed their hands on him without his knowledge. He moved his legs that were splayed out before him and knew immediately that the anklet was gone. That was almost as disconcerting as seeing the needle and dangling tubing embedded in the crook of his elbow. There were traces of blood in the line and Neal suddenly felt sick because he knew what that meant. A slight noise in his surroundings pulled him from his bout of nausea.

A middle-aged, wiry man with a receding hairline was seated on a stool in front of an easel with a goose-neck lamp centered on the paper tacked up on it. When Neal squinted his eyes, he could make out the beginning outlines of another famous Picasso sketch—the one of Don Quixote de la Mancha astride his horse, Rocinante, and his little sidekick, Sancho Panza, riding a donkey. Neal recalled that this 1952 pen and ink drawing was quite different from the minimalistic ones that Peter had in the evidence room. The Picasso sketch that the guy was trying to replicate was more intricate and dramatic, with Don Quixote looking gaunt although noble, and carrying a lance as he embarked on an impossible quest. His smaller squire was a rounder, less defined mass of ink, perhaps because Picasso wanted the longer sinuous lines depicting the real hero to take center stage. Neal watched silently as his kidnapper tried to duplicate the masterpiece.

“Do you really think you can pull it off?” Neal rasped out. “It’s going to be a little more difficult than swiping a few strokes onto a piece of paper. One could say that this little endeavor would require actual artistic talent—something that I don’t see just yet, my friend.”

The man turned and an ugly smile twisted his mouth. “I don’t think you’re in any position to critique my work, Caffrey, and I’m not your friend!”

“Perhaps not,” Neal conceded, “but I do have a question, nonetheless. Why is there a needle in my arm? Have you been pushing drugs into me to keep me unconscious? I mean, what the hell? I take it you’re a forger just like me—brothers under the skin, so to speak. Now that begs the question of why the overblown inhospitable treatment?”

“Because you’re a bragging buffoon who had the audacity to claim my work as your own,” the menacing man almost roared.

“Okay, my bad,” Neal replied amiably, “but I’m sure we can work this out. I can go public and say that I was mistaken and that those other Picasso pieces weren’t done by me. I’m sure we can somehow convince the FBI of that.”

“Those drawings were unique and one of a kind in their own way,” the other artist was now the one doing the boasting.

“And what way was that?” Neal tried to entice the man into a confession.

The kidnapper’s face was now contorted into a grotesque mask of self-satisfaction. “The drawings were not the real masterpiece. The medium used to create them was the true piece de resistance. The renderings were drawn with blood—blood from several disrespectful victims who paid the price for their ignorant attitudes.”

“Maybe I don’t believe you,” Neal taunted.

“Oh, believe it, Caffrey,” the man snarled. “This current work on my easel is India ink combined with your blood. So, now you know why I must have readily available access to your vein.”

“Who’s blood was in the other drawings?” Neal asked harshly.

“Oh, just some stupid, vapid women who wouldn’t give me the time of day,” was the glib answer.

Neal snorted in derision. “So, I’m surmising that your pick-up lines with the fairer sex didn’t live up to the hype. Maybe sometimes they did, but you didn’t quite hit the mark of the ladies’ expectations when you got them into the sack. How am I doing so far?”

“You need to shut the fuck up or I’ll just slit your throat and be done with it,” the agitated man barked.

“Not a good idea,” Neal warned. “If you cut my carotid, the blood will be like a geyser and it’ll just clot on the floor into a gelatinous mass in a matter of minutes. Can you complete the work that quickly? I think not, so you need my heart to keep pumping if you want a fresh supply of usable ink.”

The artist had stood up and was looming over his prisoner with his hands clenched. Somehow, he got himself under control by sheer willpower and returned to his easel. “Ever hear of heparin, pal?” he flung the words over his shoulder. “That will keep your blood viscous long after you’re gone.”

“So, you’re ultimately planning on killing me,” Neal hazarded a guess.

“You’re a smart guy, Caffrey,” the murderer gloated. “I’m keeping you alive so that you can watch me create what is akin to those death masks that were popular during the Middle Ages. You should feel honored that I’m allowing you to witness your primal energy being transformed into a masterpiece. When it’s finished, then I’ll allow you to escape into death. I’ll call in an anonymous tip to your handler at the FBI and they’ll find your corpse along with your life’s blood incorporated within a magnificent work of art.”

“Did you force the women you murdered to watch, as well?” Neal asked quietly.

“No, those bitches didn’t earn that right. Besides, those other drawings were done swiftly before the blood was even cold,” was the horrifying answer.

Neal tried to remain calm and his voice was almost like a soft caress. “Maybe I should get to know my executioner before that drawing is finished. Somehow, I can sense that you’re not just some angry misogynistic man on a mission to destroy women who have no respect for you or your talent. Why don’t you start by telling me your name?”

Neal was surprised when an answer was forthcoming. “My name is Paul,” the artist murmured without turning.

“Paul,” Neal repeated in a low voice. “That’s the English version of Pablo. Is that the name that your parents gave you, or did you just decide to claim it in an attempt to honor Picasso, someone whom you obviously seem to have an affinity for?”

Neal’s kidnapper turned and looked at his prisoner intently before asking an off-the-wall question. “Do you believe in a soul, Caffrey?”

“In my mind, the jury’s still out on that issue,” Neal replied tentatively. “How about you? Do you believe that human beings possess a soul?”

“Oh, most definitely,” the suddenly animated man said earnestly. “I prefer to call it genius rather than a soul, a word that reeks of religious undertones. I truly believe there is a finite amount of stupendous genius drifting through our world, and it sporadically manifests itself along life’s continuum. Throughout the centuries, mortal men have witnessed its greatness in many realms such as science and art. Visionaries like Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, and Einstein all were born in succeeding centuries. When one died, a few years later, the torch was picked up by another great innovative mind. It was the same for revered creative artists. Michelangelo died in 1564 and not even a half-century later, Rembrandt was born. Goya was born next after his death, and then Picasso came into this world in 1881. That Spanish genius died in 1973, the very year I was born.”

Neal began to suspect that he was dealing with someone in the throes of a psychotic break from reality who was living in a fantasy world. “Paul, let me get this straight in my mind. Do you believe you are the reincarnated spirit of Pablo Picasso? If so, then you’ve got it all wrong. Your dead idol loved women. He was married for a long time and he had a slew of affairs too numerous to mention. Never once did he physically hurt a female.”

“I’m not saying that I’m actually him,” the apparently demented man protested. “But I believe I am the embodiment of a great genius that continues to live on through this life and the next.”

“But you’re trying to emulate Picasso’s work,” Neal stressed. “If you’re destined to be the next Van Gough or Andy Warhol, shouldn’t you be blazing new territory and creating something unique and innovative?”

“Don’t you think making sketches in blood is innovative?” Neal’s antagonist argued.

“That may be true, but nobody seems to be aware of that little tidbit of information,” Neal continued to try to make some sense out of this weird conversation.

“Look, Caffrey, just shut the hell up!” the determined artist roared. “You’re yammering is distracting me from my work.”

“Didn’t know you had a timetable,” Neal mumbled forlornly under his breath. Apparently, Neal’s handler wasn’t worried about the hours of the day. Peter had probably left his job at the Bureau at 6 PM on the dot and gone home for dinner, and Neal was beyond miffed. His dogged pursuer should have found his endangered partner by now, and he should have come riding to the rescue atop a white horse. Where were the cops when you needed them?

Neal figured it was probably less than a half hour later that his ears picked up the faint scrabbling above his head. The artist heard it, too, and put down his pen. Neal tried to distract the man’s suspicions and play down the significance. “Maybe you’ve got bats in the belfry or mice in your attic. These old building probably sigh and creak all the time.”

The man didn’t answer. Neal’s heart sank when he picked up a long-bladed knife from his box of supplies on the floor. Suddenly, the ominous figure quickly advanced, sank down to his knees beside his captive, and held the lethal weapon to Neal’s neck. Not a second later, the room was suddenly filled with a SWAT team holding their own weapons with scopes trained on the man that Neal only knew as Paul.

Peter brought up the rear and his expression hardened as he took in the scene. “If I see you begin to apply even a millimeter of pressure on that knife, your head will explode like a watermelon,” he threatened the would-be murderer. “Put it down now and step away from Caffrey.”

“If you kill me, it will not be the end,” the artist made his own threat. “I’ll continue on through this life and beyond.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, pal, so don’t push your luck,” Peter spat out. “Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but, regardless, it’s going to end right here and right now.”

“Yes, perhaps for a short while it will end,” the man agreed as he suddenly removed the blade from Neal’s throat and plunged it deeply into the left side of his own chest. He neatly perforated his heart and he bled out in minutes as his blood seeped onto the floor in a widening puddle moving towards Neal’s legs.

Neal was momentarily stunned but then he was struggling to wriggle away from the advancing dark red flow. “Damn it, Peter, get me away from that!”

“Calm down, Neal, I’ve got you and you’re safe now,” Peter said firmly as he put his arm around his hyperventilating CI. “Somebody find some bolt cutters,” he roared at the assembled crew of black-clad figures.

“It took you long enough,” Neal said in a withering tone. “You tricked me out with the tracking stud on my jeans, so why wait until the eleventh hour to come to the rescue?”

“The transmission was spotty and became complete static when that dude carried you underground and there was a ton of concrete over your head blocking the signal,” Peter explained softly. “We’ve been searching every industrial building in a ten block radius, and it took hours before we spotted the glow from a light down here in this one.”

“I guess I’m just lucky that crazy wackadoodle was a slow artist,” Neal whispered just loud enough for Peter’s ears to hear.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed with a fond smile. “And I’m extremely thankful that you were lucky.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It had been days since the murderous artist’s body had been autopsied and his fingerprints taken. Nothing popped in AFIS, so he had never been in the system or printed for any reason. His photo had been circulated through various agencies, but he remained a ‘John Doe.’ A sample of his DNA had been preserved and kept on file in the event someone came forward to report a missing person.

“He told me he was born in 1973, the same year that Picasso died, so that would make him 46 years old,” Neal apprised Peter. “Although he said that his name was Paul, that just may have been part of his psychosis and an attempt to intertwine with his idol’s dead spirit. Actually, I think he truly believed that he was the reborn essence of that artist. Maybe you could send his picture out to the surrounding mental institutions to see if anyone recognizes him as a former patient.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Peter agreed. “Maybe something will pop and we won’t have to bury him without a name.”

Neal looked thoughtful. “Do you think that a person is going off the rails if they believe in being reborn over and over?”

“You mean like reincarnation?” Peter asked.

Neal just shrugged. “The Buddhists and the Hindus believe that the soul comes back, and they’re both very old and respected religions.”

“Right—it’s all about karma,” Peter mused. “The soul comes back, time after time, until they finally see the error of their ways and lead a good and pure life. So, Neal, how many times have you been around the block?”

“Maybe I am a very old soul, Peter,” Neal said slowly, “but somehow I think you’ve accompanied me on my journey during many lifetimes.”

“Yeah,” Peter uncharacteristically agreed with a grimace, “probably chasing you on and on through the millenniums.”

“Do you think we’ll ever get tired of our never-ending karmic game of cat and mouse?” Neal asked with a grin.

“I don’t think we have to worry about that anytime soon,” Peter said almost fondly. “You still have a long way to go, Buddy!”