WITH THE WIND IN OUR FACE - Chapter 1

When the flames die out and the wreck is shown to contain one decapitated body, burnt beyond recognition, they are given the hope and the belief they need, that Castle is still alive.

When, two days later, Beckett's car launches itself over the crash barrier on FDR and disappears into the murky currents of the Hudson, only to be hauled out with smashed windscreen, open doors and no body inside, hope and belief become dread and doubts.

The FBI send in a special team, the NYPD sets up a special task force, the press launches special editions and has a field day which lasts for most the week. Every lead, reliable or not, every clue, forensic or witness-based is chased down, followed through twisting and turning labyrinths of truths, half-truths and outright lies.

Three month in, the Head Investigator closes the cover on the file, scrawls his signature across the bottom and hands it to his assistant. From the glass enclosed bullpen and precinct passageways, cops in and out of uniform look on in silence, a number of them turning away in disgust and looking at their Captain who stands within her office doorway, arms crossed, face rigid.

Two days later, only a small group remain, volunteers willing to forgo days off, time off and anything else required, in order to find the answers. Anger gives way to despair, despair to frustration, frustration to apathy.


He scratches his beard, trying to remember the feel of a clean shave, even what a hot shower felt like. He turns his mind to the matter, remembering the brown tiled room, the rush of water, the heat rising from his body, the feel of her against him, the scent of her hair … with a growl of anger he shakes his head, clears the thoughts which he knows will only hurt even more, refocuses on the present.

He shifts his legs, hears the rattling of the chains, feels the weights of the shackles around his ankles. There's the usual scurrying in the corner, beady red eyes looking his way and he yells at them, picks up and throws the tin bowl in the direction of the squeaking chatter, hears the metallic rattle and scuffling of feet as the bowl bounces off the wall and rolls along the floor before coming to a rest. Instinctively he rubs the edge of his hand, feels the scar where sharp teeth tore into soft flesh

Momentary silence as all sit petrified, then the surreptitious scuffling begins again. He turns his head, eyes accustomed to the gloom, sees the pale reflection of light bouncing off the uneven stonework. He smiles grimly to himself, light? Who's he kidding, it's as dark as the Earl of Hell's waist coat in here. Whatever light penetrates his abode is nothing more than a faint distilling of shapes and forms.

He strains his hearing, listens for the far-off rattle of keys and locks that would indicate the start of another day. Day, night, what difference does it make? He has no clue as to the passage of time, only the rattling of keys, the emptying of the bucket, the carefully held tin mug with the so precious water, the dented bowl of some unimaginative and unappealing hash marking the passage of time.

He no longer smells the stench of his own waste, the damp, musty odour of his cell, his brain has long since learnt to ignore these, to assimilate them as the norm, like his own body, staleness and sweat and matted hair hardly a concern any more.

He feels the bite and flinches, dives his hand inside the remnants of his shirt, feels the slight slithering body between his fingertips, squeezes and feels the bursting sliminess and then he's placing it in his mouth, tastes the saltiness of his own blood, the sharper taste of its epidermis.

He rises to his feet, not as easy as it used to be he thinks, uses the wall to support himself, the stones damp to his touch, the scurrying in momentary abeyance, red eyes glaring in his direction. He begins his morning routine, first the careful stretching, the repetition making his joints more fluid, his ligaments stretching to the pull. Then he begins the second part of his routine, the slow sit-ups, the sequence of press-ups and knee bends. He laughs mentally at the films showing depraved prisoners with bulky muscles and executing never-ending exercises, he must be down to about half his bulk by now, ribs noticeable to his probing fingers, thighs easily encircled with both hands. He needs to be careful, not use up too many calories, not overdo his exercises and have another fainting fit, the last had led to a painful lump on his head where he'd crashed onto the stone floor … coming to, to the sensation of scurrying feet over his head and body, the sharp pain of razor like teeth finding soft flesh.

His thoughts are interrupted by the distant metallic sound and he pauses in his final set of push ups, hold his body on trembling arms a few seconds more, then lowers himself to the ground, allows his breathing to come down from gasps to nothing more than laboured breaths, pushes himself over onto his back, rolls against the wall and uses it to help him make his feet.

The routine is well established by now. He stands still, waits, eyes closed, for the glare of the flashlight searing though his eyelids, squeezes them closed in a futile attempt to spare himself the pain. The first few times he'd raised his hands, used them to shield his eyes ... the cane had almost broken his fingers, he'd soon decided that functional hands were more important than temporary inconvenience. Eventually the glare leaves his lids, their pinkish translucency fading to purple opacity. Slowly he blinks them open, his night sight lost, the cell pitch black except for the cone of light aimed at the bucket in the corner. He steps over to it, feet scratching for purchase on the floor, balance not quite there with the loss of vision. He bends down, picks up the bucket, faeces sloping around in the liquid … not much of either given the meagre diet. The cone of light flickers a few feet to the left, highlights the fresh bucket sitting just outside the bars. He takes a step back, waits for the gate to swing open, takes the two steps needed to reach it and deposits his bucket next to the other.

Picking up the fresh bucket he extremes his care, careful not to unbalance the contents, cautiously placing them near the wall, away from an accidental kick. The cone of light shift around the cell, passes and then sweeps back to highlight the tin bowl lying on the floor. He bends down, retrieves it and watches as the light sweeps back and finds the slight recess in the wall. He steps over, his shadow casting ogre-like shapes, expanding his size, creating a monster. He checks the contents of the tin mug, aware that it has long been sucked and licked dry, the hope always there however.

He places the mug inside the bowl, follows the cone of light to the gate, sets them on the floor next to the waste bucket, takes two steps back and presses his back to the wall. He squeezes his eyes closed, anticipating the flare of light. It doesn't come, today it seems there's a need for haste … or at least time is not to be wasted.

The gate clangs shut, tumblers fall into place with the scratching of the key, bucket, bowl and mug are momentarily lit up by the cone from the flashlight before being plunged back into darkness. The padding of footsteps fades away, the metallic echoes bring his day's entertainment to a close.

Carefully he slides down the wall into a seated position, he waits, waits for his sight to readjust once more to his world of darkness, waits, careful not to straighten his legs, not to accidentally kick the bucket which is somewhere off to his right. He waits, listens to the scratching of feet, ready to intervene should they approach his bucket … listens … waits.

He doesn't know how long he waits, twice he's had to kick out, twice he's intercepted their approach. Now his eyes are able to make out some details, the slightly paler darkness of the passageway which must receive some faint source of light. The wall before him has taken on some substance, not yet the glow and shadow of individual stones, more the general presence of mass. Red beads are over by the gate, trying to make their way round, out of reach of his legs.

He turns his head, stares into stygian gloom and then he can begin to make out the shape of the bucket, maybe an arm's length away. He waits, thinks he can just make out the slightly paler shape of the mug sitting inside the bucket. Still he waits, licking his lips and imagining, remembering the taste of water running down his throat.

Eventually he moves, rises carefully to his feet, crouches slowly by the bucket, careful to leave sufficient space between them. He lowers his hand, just the one, tries to settle the slight shaking which threatens to set in. His fingers grasp the edge, almost lose their grip as he shift his footing slightly, he stops breathing, waits, carefully adjusts his grip and then raises the mug. Carefully he moves the mug to his mouth, feels the edge with his lips, slowly allows them to curl over the edge, lips with a life of their own he thinks, tastes the metal of the cup, taste the freshness of the water slowly trembling just below the mug's rim, savours the first sip, tilts the mug carefully to increase the flow, enough! Not too much. He swallows, feels the glorious sensation of it sliding down his throat, the wetness, the coolness.

He's careful now as he stands, turns and takes a step towards the recess. Using one hand as a guide, the other to hold the mug, he sets it in the recess, makes sure it doesn't rock, pushes it slightly till it sits square within the flattened area. Here there's no risk of accidentally kicking it over like he'd done the first few days. Here it was safe, safe for him, safe from him.

He returns to the bucket, kicks out at the shape which was edging closer along the line of floor and wall, hears the squeal followed by the scurrying away into the darkness. He leans down, lifts out the tin dish and moves away to his favourite bit of wall, the one without the awkward ridges and protrusions that bite into his back. He sniffs the contents, shrugs, unable any longer to make out the individual smells, now it all smells and tastes pretty much the same, like a mix of porridge and cabbage.

He puts the bowl to his lips, tilts it slightly and uses his finger to push some of the mix into his mouth. He's careful, chews every mouthful twenty times, or at least tries to, sometimes he only makes it to fourteen, sometimes sixteen … then it's gone and he has to start on the next one.

His stomach growls, wanting more, needing more, but he's careful, taking his time, making it last, this is all he has till tomorrow. He pushes the last bit into his mouth, swallows after only managing seven chews, then holds the dish up to his face, licks the edge, then slowly works his tongue inwards, licking every inch of the surface, making sure not one grain of hash is left. He chuckles to himself, a somewhat dry chuckle he has to admit, he wonders if he'll die from metal poisoning with all this licking.

He puts the dish down next to his knee, within easy reach if he should need it. He settles back against the wall, raises his knees and rests his arms on them. Closes his eyes and lets his mind wonder … to silver, sparkling in the blue of the sky, a glint of metal laying vapour trails across the azure backdrop … to the leafy trees and bright green grass … to a gentle breeze sweeping, hesitating, then rustling once more, carrying with it the faint taste of saltiness and scent of sea.


AN: I know, I should never start another story when I've already got so many on the run! But this one's been hanging around the breezy backrooms of my mind and I needed to get it down. How far I'll go with it? ... I don't know, but it will need to be finished before September brings us the real answers if at all. I am also thinking of making this a work of two, so if someone out there would like to have a go at co-writing this, you are more than welcome to get in touch with me.

Apart from that, as usual I'm interested in finding out what you make of this. Cheers!