TimeinaBottle by Oldest Man
Once upon a time there was a woman who, some would argue, was at the top of her game. She was a police detective in a position of authority over other detectives in the Homicide unit, a position normally held by men 20 years her senior. She had a civilian partner and that alone would make her unique but she didn't always feel that way.
In fact, if you asked her on certain days she'd probably reply 'cursed with an influential 9 year old suffering from an overdose of Sugar Bombs cereal'.
If you asked her on the right day and she wasn't feeling guarded and defensive, she might answer 'lucky, I feel lucky' and just smile, her eyes lighting up and crinkling at the corners in a smile that covered her entire body.
Today was not one of the right days.
"Castle, if you touch another thing on my desk, I swear I'm going to Super Glue your palms together and send you home. You're constantly touching my stuff and you know how that bothers me."
"Aw, Kate, I was just – "
"Don't call me Kate! I answer to 'Beckett' or 'Detective' when we're at work. How many times have we had this discussion?"
"But KB, I was just – "
That stopped her in her tracks. He'd called her 'KB' in a dedication and it had touched her heart. The rest of the dedication had touched her soul.
"Kitten, 'Beckett' or "Detective'. I know you have an amazing memory for the littlest detail so employ it." She got up and walked toward the break room for another shot of caffeine but called out "Castle! Don't touch that!" as she walked into the break room.
He jerked his hand away mumbling, "How does she do that?" He had watched her walk away, something he loved doing almost as much as watching her walking towards him, and he knew she wasn't looking!
"Eyes, Bro, she's got eyes in the back of her head." Esposito had been doing his second favorite goofing-off exercise, watching Castle and Beckett 'flirt' in their own way.
Esposito had been doing his second favorite goofing-off exercise, watching Castle and Beckett 'flirt' in their own way.
"She must. Creepy. Really unearthly. Unnatural."
Kate was standing at the doorway of the break room listening and smiling. Time to rattle the cage somemore.
"I heard that, Castle! Esposito, you better not be surfing the net. Go down and help Ryan pull some cold cases if you're bored."
Castle paled and Esposito jumped up from his desk and headed to the men's room but whispered, "I think you're right, Bro. Definitely unnatural," as he passed Castle.
Things were finally headed in the right direction for Kate. Josh was around more, Castle was being unusually helpful and restrained, a miracle unto itself, and she was making progress in her search for her Holy Grail – her mother's murderers.
Then it all went to Hell.
"She's gone. I'm sorry. We did all we could but the damage was just too severe. She passed away on the operating table. I'm sorry for your loss."
He remembered every second of that day in amazing clarity. The way she looked over at him when she was delivering Roy Montgomery's eulogy, her eyes so full of love for him that he couldn't breathe for a second. He saw a flash of light like something reflecting off glass and he shouted at her and dove at her, knocking her to the ground.
He saw the light in her green eyes dim and then fade forever.
Rick Castle was a man in mourning. He was also drunk just as he had been since Kate's death. He'd fled the hospital and driven as far as he could before falling apart. He finally pulled himself together and found a liquor store and a motel. He turned off his cell phone after seeing several calls from Kate Beckett. Someone was using her cell figuring he would answer out of habit and hope. He turned the cell off.
He was staring at the television that was showing some stupid local cable show called 'Mad Scientists' when he heard one of the guests mention that he had a time machine. The host laughed at him as did the audience.
The man was the epitome of what one thought of when 'Mad Scientist' came to mind. Long and unkempt hair, a poorly trimmed beard, thick glasses, and clothes that were so out of style they seemed almost avant-garde and he had the mien of one not quite sane.
For just a second, Castle thought about the implications of a time machine. He could go back in time and fix everything that had gone wrong between them. He would not investigate her mother's case; he would not invite Gina to the Hamptons, and Kate Beckett would not be dead. There would be no cascade of deadly dominoes.
He scrambled to find a piece of paper and pen and took down the station's name and googled it on the internet and located a telephone number and address. He waded through a receptionist, a secretary and finally was connected with an assistant to the producer of 'Mad Scientists'.
"Yes, I'd like to know the name of the man you just had on your show. And his university affiliation. I'm Richard Castle and I think he might be the answer to my problem. I'm – I'm writing another Nikki Heat novel and this one involves murder among a group of scientists and – oh, you loved the book? Wonderful. Would you like an autographed first edition?"
It always surprised him how much information you could get for a signed copy of a book.
He called over to NYU and asked to speak to Dr. Arvil Flowers and was transferred to the Physics Department secretary who told him that 'Dr. Nutcase is no longer affiliated with the University'. A little charm and another first signed first edition and he had the good doctor's home address and telephone number. A few minutes later, he had an appointment to meet with Dr. Flowers himself at his laboratory in Brooklyn.
Laboratory
It wasn't at all what he'd imagined. There were no large electrical devices. It wasn't dark and dank. It was almost all computers and monitors surrounding a phone booth-sized Plexiglas enclosure. The walls were all white and there were areas marked 'high voltage' but they were well out of the path of traffic.
"Not what you expected at all, is it, Mr. Castle?" He seemed less manic that he had on television. He was wearing a Giants football jersey, jeans and tennis sneakers and looked like he was on his way to a sports bar to catch a game. He still wore the glasses and his hair hadn't seen a comb in years.
"No. I guess movies influenced my expectations. I expected something different."
"So, you're writing a novel about time travel researchers who murder someone?"
"No. That was just to get me in here." He told Dr. Flowers everything that had happened and how he wanted to go back and find the point that everything had gone wrong – her mother's murder.
"Rick," they were on a first name basis by the end of his story, "in theory, it sounds practical but in actuality? Too many paradoxes. What about all those people she put away? How many more people might die in an altered future because she wouldn't be there to stop, say, a serial killer?"
Rick started to say that it didn't matter but it did. Could he condemn countless people to death just to have her back? No. His moral code, more importantly, her moral code, wouldn't allow it.
Arvil Flowers watched the heartbroken man sitting across from him sigh and then stand up.
"Thank you for your time, Dr. Flowers." He turned and started walking away.
"Wait! Why go back to stop her mother's murder? Why not just stop hers?"
"What?" He wanted to save Johanna Beckett so that he could spare Kate the heartache and suffering of the death of her mother.
"Save Kate, Rick. We can do it. We have the technology and the power to do it. All you have to do is go back and stop her murder. The impact, going forward, should be minimal and if anyone deserves a second chance, your Beckett sounds like the one."
The solution was elegant and simple. When he suggested it, Arvil just grinned. It would eliminate so many potential paradoxes.
Flushing Lab
"Ready, Rick?" Arvil's palms' were sweating and he ran the time coordinate calculations through several times until he was absolutely sure they were correct.
"Yeah. One question, though. How do I get back?"
"You have 18 hours before the tachyons in your body begin to stress and send you back. It's probably painless."
"Probably?" His eyes were wide open and as big as saucers.
"The rats didn't exactly write a report, Rick. But they're fine, for the most part."