There's Always a Story – XX
Summary: No, this is not the smut version – that would be XXX. This is the version of what happened to Beckett during my story There's Always a Story, so you might want to read that first for context. And once again, the death of a major character is mentioned. Definitely AU.
AN: So here's the final part of the story; it will probably be just 2 chapters, maybe 3. Thanks for reading. As usual, I don't own Castle or any of the characters other than the ones I make up for a story. And I used Google translate for the French, which may or may not be accurate, so my sincere apologies to any French speakers.
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Chapter 1
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Voices floated through the periphery of her awareness as Beckett drifted in and out, their words landing briefly and then meandering lazily away, like a butterfly on a summer day, but some of the phrases stuck.
"Internal decapitation – long recovery – we'll see…"
Then they changed from hopeful to urgent – "Come on, girlfriend – you can do it." "Katie bug, just open your eyes for me…"
But she had no control over answering the pleas to wake up, to move, to do something to show them that she was still there, still alive, and the thick heavy blanket pinning her down wouldn't allow it.
The sobbing should have bothered her, but it didn't as she succumbed to the darkness that pulled at her greedily.
It will be better in the morning, she thought, but there was something nibbling at the corners of her consciousness that said it wouldn't be – it would never be the same again.
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The steady beep was annoying, drawing her back to consciousness when all she wanted was to go back to a dreamless sleep for just a while longer, to stay in this mindless state.
"Bonjour, madame," said a soft feminine voice near her head. "Je suis heureux de voir que vous êtes de retour avec nous."
Beckett coughed as she blinked her eyes open. They felt like sandpaper and she tried to reach up and rub them, only to find that her arm wouldn't move.
The speed of the beep increased as Beckett slowly came back to reality.
"Essaye de te calmer," the voice said.
Beckett realized that she should know what the woman was saying, she knew that language, was fluent in it, but her muddled brain couldn't translate the words into something intelligent.
She took a breath and coughed dryly again. "English, please?" she asked in a raspy voice.
"Oui, of course," said the woman in a thick French accent. "How about a few ice chips? That should help your throat."
Beckett nodded and then peered at the woman as she guided a spoon to her mouth. She was petite, dressed in sensible white, her hair pulled back into a bun, a stethoscope hung around her neck.
"There now, that's much better, I think," the woman said with a smile.
Beckett tried to look around as the ice chips melted, but found that her neck wouldn't move either. She suddenly felt claustrophobic by that fact that her body wouldn't obey her.
"It's all right," said the woman in a soothing voice, patting her shoulder. "You're all right. Your neck was injured and you were restrained to give it time to heal."
"Oh, okay," Beckett said as she blinked her eyes several times. "What – what happened?" Had she been chasing a prep and fallen? Or had she been driving? She couldn't quite remember.
"The doctor will explain everything," said the woman as she checked her watch. "He should be here in an hour or so. In the meantime, I'll undo your wrist restraints and set you up a little. That should be more comfortable."
"Thank you," Beckett said as the bed moved.
Now that she could see the room, she frowned slightly at the opulence. She was sure she had been in the hospital but this definitely wasn't one.
"Where…where am I?" Beckett asked.
The woman nodded as she checked the IV infusion pump. "The doctor will explain everything. But until then, my name is Simone and I'm here to make sure you are comfortable. Can you tell me your pain rating from a scale of 1 to 10?"
Beckett frowned again. Pain – she wasn't in pain – she just felt incredibly fuzzy, like she had had several glasses of the wine she liked. "None."
"That's good, then," Simone said. "Your little nap must have done its job. Perhaps some more ice chips?"
The woman spooned several more ice chips into Beckett's mouth as the detective looked around the room, trying to make sense of where she was.
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Beckett was dozing again when the door to the room opened and a jovial-looking man in a white coat walked in.
"Bonjour, Simone," he said with a slight Indian accent as the nurse handed him a chart. "Alors, comment est notre malade aujourd'hui?"
"She's doing very well," Simone answered in English as Beckett blinked her eyes open. "She had a restful evening and has had a glass of ice chips."
"Ah, excellent," said the man as he smiled at Beckett over the top of his reading glasses. "Welcome back. You had us worried for a while. I'm Dr. Krish; I'll be your attending physician while you are here."
"Thanks," said Beckett, licking her lips slightly to moisten them. "And where exactly is here?"
"We'll get to that in a minute," Dr. Krish said as he pulled a pen from his pocket and uncovered Beckett's feet. He ran the pen along the soles. "Tell me if you can feel that."
"Yeah, it tickles," Beckett answered.
"Good. Now press against my hand as hard as you can," he said, placing his hand against the sole of one foot and then the other. "And now," he said, placing his hand on top of her foot, "try not to let me press your foot down."
He seemed satisfied with the results and scribbled notes in her chart before handing it to Simone.
Dr. Krish took off his glasses and then sat down on the edge of Beckett's bed. "Ms. Beckett, I want you to think back to the last thing you remember – can you tell me what that is?"
Beckett nodded slightly, her neck still mostly immobile. She started to speak and then paused. What was the last thing that she remembered clearly?
She closed her eyes and thought back. There had been a murder – of course, there had been a murder – there was always a murder, in this case, two murders.
"The Coonan case," Beckett finally said. "Jack Coonan was murdered by a man named Hal Lockwood."
The details were hazy but slowly coming back. "And then Lockwood was murdered. Ryan and Esposito were bringing Dick Coonan to the precinct to interview him as a possible suspect."
She frowned as she tried to remember something, anything past that point, but couldn't. "That's it – that's all I remember." She regarded the doctor. "What happened? Was I in an accident?"
Dr. Krish studied her for a moment before speaking. "I wouldn't call what happened to you an accident. Detectives Ryan and Esposito did bring Coonan to the 12th precinct, but while he was there, Coonan attacked you and Captain Montgomery. That's how you were injured.
"Coonan slammed you against the wall hard enough to cause a concussion and severe whiplash. We've been monitoring you since then."
Beckett looked at him in confusion. "I don't understand," she stuttered. "Why would he do that?"
Dr. Krish nodded. "We have our theories, but nothing concrete yet."
He patted her leg as her brow furrowed in concentration. "That's all right. It's not uncommon in these types of injuries to have memory gaps. I doubt you'll ever remember the incident," Dr. Krish stated matter-of-factly.
Beckett closed her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine the scene. Suddenly her eyes flew open.
"You said Captain Montgomery was also attacked – how is he?" she asked.
Dr. Krish took a deep breath. "Captain Montgomery is dead."
"No, no," Beckett said in disbelief, remembering not to shake her head. "How?"
"Coonan took…a gun and shot him," Dr. Krish said simply.
Tears ran out of the corners of Beckett's eyes and she brought a hand up to wipe them away angrily. "Kevin and Javi – are they okay?" she whispered.
Dr. Krish nodded. "They're fine. They weren't hurt."
Beckett steeled herself as her mind raced with thoughts of the things that needed to be taken care of now. "Okay, okay – how soon can I be released?"
"And that's the problem," said Dr. Krish. "As I said, we think we know why this happened. And right now, this is the best place for you to be."
Beckett tried to shake her head. "No, I have to be back with my team, working this case."
Dr. Krish looked at her sadly as he stood and pulled an envelope from a pocket. "He said you'd be stubborn," he said as he handed her the envelope. "I think this will explain everything, Ms. Beckett. And as to where you are, you're in a small town outside of Paris."
Dr. Krish nodded at Simone and then back at Beckett. "Just push the button if you need anything."
Beckett looked at the envelope addressed to her and then back up as the doctor and Simone walked out of the room.
She would recognize Roy Montgomery's neat handwriting anywhere and she opened the sealed envelope to find another, smaller envelope inside that had also been sealed. Neither showed signs of tampering, so she opened the smaller envelope and pulled out the sheet inside with some trepidation.
'Kate, if you're reading this – well, it's not good news. It means that I'm dead and can't protect you anymore. And since I can't be there, I've made arrangements that I hope you'll comply with.
'So the first question you'll ask is, is this really me, Roy Montgomery? The answer is yes. Remember the first time we met, after hours in the evidence room? You were just a beat cop then, not even supposed to be there, but there you were, pouring over your mother's file. I knew then what type of policeman you'd be, what a damn fine detective you'd make.
'Your second question is why do you need protection? The answer is simple – when I was a rookie, I made a terrible mistake and my partners convinced me to cover it up because we would have all gone to prison. And what I started was an avalanche that buried people along the way.
'This is hard to write, probably even harder for you to read, but I wasn't always a shining example. Back in the day, we were shaking down mobsters and holding them for ransom. We thought we were doing right – ridding the streets of the worst of the worst, making them pay, but we were no better than they were.
'One night, we went to pick up a mobster named Joe Pulgatti and a man was with him in the alley – Bob Armen. We struggled and Armen got my gun. He shot himself with it and died there in the alley. What we didn't know was that Armen was an undercover FBI agent.
'We had a benefactor who made it all go away for a price, who could put the blame on Pulgatti, and he did.'
Beckett frowned as she lowered the piece of paper. Where had she heard that name before? She lifted the piece of paper and started to read again, her hand shaking slightly.
'Pulgatti was sentenced to life in prison but years later, contacted several lawyers to reopen his case. Kate, your mother was the only one who responded. She was looking into what happened that night when she was killed.'
No, no, thought Beckett. This is a nightmare that I just need to wake up from.
'I'm so sorry, Kate. If I had just confessed to what happened, your mother would still be alive and you'd probably be a lawyer, not a cop laying it all on the line every day.
'As to why you need protection, we gave our benefactor all of the money we had collected from the shake-downs and went cold turkey. But I knew that he wouldn't be satisfied with just that in the long run, that we would always be a threat and he'd come after us one day – to keep me from talking and you from finding out what happened to your mother.
'So I made arrangements with a friend to keep you safe if anything happened to me. He was to take you some place where the man can't reach you. And that's where you are now and I pray that you stay there.
'Kate, you're the best I've ever trained and I'm truly sorry – my spectacular sin has gnawed at me every day – that I'm the person responsible for all the pain and suffering in your life. I don't expect you to, but I hope someday that you can forgive me.'
The letter was simply signed RM.
For several long moments, Beckett just stared at the piece of paper and then fisted it in her hand, the pit of her stomach churning in anger and betrayal.
Montgomery had been her mentor and her friend, but he had known all along what had happened to her mother; he could have said something at any time, but he chose not to. And now he was gone and she was…in Paris of all places…and couldn't get justice for her mother.
Beckett then did something she hadn't done since she was 19 and her mother had just been murdered – she rolled on her side and cried herself to sleep.
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