Kate Beckett sat in her car, fingers tapping out an anxious beat against the plastic armrests. Heat radiated from the air vents, washing over her impatient form and providing her some comfort. Caste, usually so eager, had stopped texting half an hour ago. She understood that her partner was busy, but he always texted her back, even if it was just a stupid emoji. She smiled as her long fingers scrolled up the screen, gazing at the silly happy faces and thumbs up which littered the text.
The shrill ringtone lit up the car, echoing off the fabric walls with an urgency she nearly jumped at. It was in stark contrast to the calming motion of the air vents. Picking up the phone, she replied formally and firmly, "Beckett."
It was Martha, who was hysterical. Calming down the older woman was difficult, but the heavy breathing eventually calmed down. Urging Martha on, she let the words of quickly. Kate nodded her head on the other side of the line, absorbing the information like a desperate sponge.
Richard had said that he loved her, and now everything was clicking into place. She felt herself pale at the notion, situations forming in her head. She cursed the ability of cops to foresee events, because without more information, her head was spinning. She felt a small wave of nausea and an urge to dump out the now cold coffee which was giving off the strong stench of caffeine.
The sound of the phone hanging up was distant in her ear and her hand remained still in its suspended position, too shocked to move. Her heartbeat felt too fast, her lungs too constricted, and her palms too sweaty. She was paralyzed in the state panic, and her mind was whirling with possibilities.
Her partner, the man she loved, was in a room with a Jerry Tyson. He could be dead for all she knew, shot with red blood oozing languidly out of his cooling body. He could be still alive, grasping onto the hope that she would bust into the room, guns blazing, like the guardian angel he felt her to be.
Guilt crashed into her like a wave, strong and turbulent, pulling her down to its depth. If only Beckett had been smart enough, good enough, to see the signs. Tyson was so good, so clever, and she knew that it wasn't that easy. Like a snake in the grass, he had evolved to hide and to blend in, waiting for unsuspecting prey.
With a sudden jolt, she remembered Ryan, equally helpless and almost forgotten in her anxious haste. She didn't even know if Esposito knew, but she highly doubted it. How would she tell him that his partner was in danger, and how would he react? Would he be shocked as she was, or angry, filled with a rage reserved only for the worst criminals? Would he feel guilty as she did, forced into stillness as his world crumbled around him?
With a deep swallow, she wrapped her fingers around her cellphone, regaining feeling in her fingertips. She unlocked the device with shaking hands and called the familiar number of the Latino detective. Her voice was weak, nervous, and as she told him her story, she could feel his voice do the same.
She could imagine the shock in his brown eyes as they widened in surprise. The buzzing of the television tuning out until all he could hear was his own heartbeat, loud in his silent apartment. Now, he agreed, they would work together to save their partners.
Kate promised to herself, for Alexis and for Martha, that she would find Richard alive. She leaned on the promise like a crutch, letting no other possibility be anything but a fleeting thought. For once in her life, failure was not an option, for no reason other than it was him. He was impossible, and so was a death.
