Monster: Chapter 2
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
The Hamptons, Still Late Evening of May 13, 2014
"We open tonight's broadcast with a sad story this evening from The Hamptons. Tragedy struck this afternoon when noted New York author Richard Castle mysteriously disappeared after a violent car accident. Authorities found the burned remains of Mr. Castle's car after being called onto the scene by NYPD Detective Kate Beckett, the author's fiancée. No body was found at the scene, and if there are any clues as to Mr. Castle's whereabouts, the NYPD has put the clamps on any outgoing information at this time. Sadly, Mr. Castle and Ms. Beckett were scheduled to marry this evening at a private ceremony in the Hamptons. Some say this may just be a case of a jittery groom. Most, however, are considering this a criminal investigation. The NYPD is requesting that anyone with any information on the missing novelist please come forward, by calling the number listed below."
Kate Beckett sits upright in bed – his bed – their bed – the bed that was supposed to usher in a new life for the long-time, star-crossed couple. Her legs are drawn up, with her pillow lying in her lap. She clicks the OFF button on the television remote control, and now can only hear the silence in the bedroom. Their bedroom. Martha is down the hall in her room while Alexis down the hall in the opposite direction, in her room as well. Both have given her space for the past half hour after she told them she was going to bed. Detective Javier Esposito remained in the Hamptons is staying downstairs in the guest room.
Esposito has stayed for two reasons. First, obviously is to help his friend, to be here for her. Today was the worst buckshot to the chest she has faced yet, and that is saying something for those who know Katherine Beckett. Second, however, is to be here in case 'the call' comes. Surely there is going to be a ransom call. He wants to be here for that. For her.
Detective Kevin Ryan reluctantly headed back into the city earlier with wife, Jenny. He will run the point from the 12th Precinct offices on the investigation – beginning tomorrow – in case any new information filters in there.
The night is quiet, thankfully, finally allowing Kate the solitude she desperately needs right now. Tonight was supposed to be something magical. It has turned into something macabre, right out of a horror film. She draws her legs closer to her chin, feeling her body shaking, and allows herself to fall sideways on the bed, her tears and sobs finally exploding. Her body ebbs and flows with her cries, as she tries to muffle her sobs into the pillow. It doesn't work.
"Dammit, God," she mutters into her pillow, pounding on the bedsheets. "How could you!" she screams into the soft armful of fluff she holds on to. "Mom wasn't enough?" she asks the heavens, as she rolls onto her back, clutching the pillow back to her chest. "You had to take him, too, didn't you!" she screams at the ceiling, allowing her wailings to overtake her.
"I'm sorry, God," she whimpers, as she curls up into a fetal position, the pillow now her only comfort. "I'm sorry. Bring him back to me, God. Please, I beg you . . ."
Outside her door sits Javier Esposito, hot tears now burning his eyes and chasing down his cheeks, as he listens to the woman he considers his sister, his family, burn herself out. And there's not a damn thing he can do about it. He stands, quickly, ready to knock and walk in through the door when he hears his name being whispered.
"Javier!" Martha Rodgers whispers as loud as she can to get his attention. His head whips quickly to the left, as he sees the older red-haired woman shake her head.
"Leave her be, Detective Esposito," Martha tells him. The detective takes in the woman's appearance. Her voice is strong and brave. But the redness and wetness in her eyes belies the courageous front she wears.
"She has had enough for one day," Martha continues. "We all have. Please. Go get some rest. And pray that we hear something tomorrow. Something good."
She nods her head, and takes her leave, walking back into her bedroom. He considers her words, looks at the door, and then nods his head in agreement. Seconds later he is at the staircase, making his way down the steps and toward the guest room. He pulls up Ryan's contact information and punches SEND as he walks. Seconds later, his efforts are rewarded.
"Hey Javi," Ryan answers.
"Bro," Esposito responds. "Anything?"
"Nothing," Ryan replies, his frustration showing. "Not a damn thing. It's like he disappeared into thin air."
"Well, we both know that's impossible," Esposito counters. "Get some sleep, bro. We will start again in the morning."
"How's Beckett doing?" Ryan asks. It's a stupid question, he knows, but he has to ask it, nevertheless.
"How the fuck do you think she is doing, man!" Esposito bursts out, immediately regretting exploding on his friend. "I'm sorry, bro. I'm sorry. It's just –"
"No problem, Javi," Kevin says, giving his friend a pass. "I understand. Believe me I do. Probably sleeping on the couch tonight myself. Had a similar conversation with Jenny just a few minutes ago, in fact."
"Yeah, I can imagine. I will call tomorrow morning. You call if you hear anything first."
"Yeah, okay. G'nite Javi," Ryan says as he clicks off.
Esposito stares at his phone, and then walks into the guest room. He tosses the phone onto the guest bed, kicks his shoes off, and takes his socks off. A minute later he stands naked in the shower, hoping to drown the worst day he can remember since . . . since Kate Beckett was shot. He lowers his head into the hot spray, allowing the shower to wash away the dirt, the grime, and the tears.
Day 2: Captivity on an isolated island offshore from Tangier Island, May 14, 2014
The sweat that has drenched his entire body awakens Richard Castle. He has no idea what time it is, but he knows it is morning. Or at least it is the next day. He has no idea how long he has slept. He has no watch. No phone. Nothing to keep track of the days or hours he has been here.
It strikes him that if he were writing a novel, he would have the captive awaken with slight and temporary confusion, not initially realizing where he is, not remembering what has happened. Just for a moment, there would be that quick 'where am I' moment.
Reality, however, as he is finding out this morning, is nothing like he would write it. Nothing like it at all.
From the very second he is awake, he knows exactly where he is. Well, not exactly. What city, state, town, country – hell, he has no idea. But he knows he is still in the cabin. He also knows it is already hot as hades here in the cabin. There is no electricity, no air conditioning. His body is soaked. His orange pants and shirt are soaked.
"Won't be sleeping in these anymore," he muses to himself, as he runs his hand through his hair. "Got to cool off, get cool," he tells himself. As he stands, he swoons for a second, realizing how hungry he is. He didn't eat at all yesterday or last night. The sounds of screaming echoed in his ears long after the hungry lions had finished their meal last night. Richard Castle's appetite had left quickly and never returned.
Now, however, this morning, he is famished. He glances over at the box now under the window, which contains his food.
"Rations is more like it," he grumbles to himself, and then quickly chides himself. He knows he is going to have to stay positive. He has to stay frosty. A man could quickly lose his mind – and any chance of escape – if he doesn't stay positive. And escape he will. There is no way he is going to spend the rest of his life on this hell hole. He isn't going to die here. Through his tears of frustration and fear last night as he finally fell asleep with Kate Beckett's face imprinted on his mind, he had promised himself this. He would not die here.
"First things first," he tells himself as he walks to the single toilet and relieves himself. He sees the rolls of toilet paper that he missed in the darkness last night.
"Thank God for small favors," he thinks to himself. This would really get drastic if he didn't have this little treasure of white tissues.
Finishing, he opens the door slowly to the outside. His brain, the logical portion, tells him that he has nothing to worry about. There is no way the lions are going to get through two, tall twin fences, each fortified with barbed wire strands. His brain tells him this. But the screams from last night still call to him, telling him a very different story.
He takes a few slow, careful steps – almost trying to remain as quiet as possible. Bravery comes with each step, and before long he is taking longer, more comfortable strides, investigating the surrounding area around the cabin. He is starting to come to grips with the idea that this cabin – living in captivity – may be his home for quite some time.
He has noted the position of the sun, still rising in the sky. Now, at least he knows directions. The sun is rising in the east. He continues to search the grounds, finally finding what he is looking for. A small stone, no more than an inch in diameter. It looks like the entire area has been stripped clean of anything that could reasonably be used as a weapon. Somehow, this little guy has been missed. He walks to the outer wall facing the rising sun, and, using the stone, carves a large 'E' into the outside stone wall.
Walking around the cabin to the opposite wall, he carves a large 'W' into that outside wall. Satisfied, he walks to the remaining two walls, carving in 'S' and 'N', respectively. Now he knows directions. It's a small point, but he will take every small victory he can find here. And this is one. Every piece of information he gleams is one more than his captors want him to have.
He holds no illusion to his plight this morning. He is a captive, for certain. He has seen no warden, no guards – save the hungry duo on the other side of the fence. He considers the helicopter last night, that just happened to appear after he had regained consciousness. Knowing he has been drugged, he determines that it would have been easy for them to calculate roughly when he would awaken. They made sure he was awake for the show.
The show was a warning to him - of this much he is certain. Still, he does what every prisoner does. He paces his cell. In this case, his cell isn't some ten by ten small room. It's a twenty by twenty cabin in the middle of a small field, made of dirt for the most part. He walks along the edge of the barbed wire fence, until he realizes he has made two revolutions already. He finds no weakness in the fence. The observation both frightens and exhilarates him.
It means he probably can't get out, but also means those things out there probably can't get in. It's an interesting trade-off.
He makes his way to the water well, with the manual hand-pump he noticed last night. Glancing down, he guesses the well goes at least thirty feet deep and is – thankfully – filled with water. He takes his shirt off, then after a few seconds, decides to take his pants off as well. He glances down at the black boxer underwear that he wears.
"They changed my underwear?" he muses out loud. He strips out of the boxers as well, now standing naked in the . . . yeah, it can be called a small compound. He vaguely wonders about prisoners of war he has met and interviewed years ago for one of his early Derek Storm novels, never dreaming he would one day be in a similar situation.
He grabs the bucket and hand-pumps water into the bucket until it is filled to the brim. He places his hands in the bucket, grabbing a handful and splashing it across his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He grabs another handful and sloshes it into his mouth, gargling and spitting the liquid onto the dirt ground. Finally he grabs the entire bucket and turns it upside down on top of his head, soaking himself. He places the bucket on the ground under the spicket, and pumps another bucketful of water into the pail. He dumps this second bucket on top of his head as well.
Now, somewhat refreshed, he takes one more bucketful of water, and drops all of his clothes - the pants, shirt and boxers – into the bucket, and hand washes the items. He takes the bucket to the edge of the barbed wire fence, and rings out each item, placing them on the sharp edges of the fence to hang dry. He glances out into the brush and trees beyond the fence. He can hear the sounds of nature, but there is no trace or hint of the large killing beasts from last night.
He doesn't know an awful lot about lions, but he does remember a Discovery Channel special he watched with Alexis where they mentioned that male lions can sleep 18 to 20 hours a day, the females slightly less. He knows they sleep after a big meal, and so the likelihood of them making an appearance until later tonight is . . . well, it would be rare, he knows. For a moment, a shudder of fright overtakes him, knowing that lions can go days without feeding after a large meal. But he thinks about their next large meal. Where will it come from?
He nods his head, pulling himself out of his grizzly thoughts, while gazing at his tacky, loud clothing. Without warning, he turns back to the open field. He drops to the ground, and begins to do push-ups. With each push-up, he counts with the same cadence.
Up. "Find me, Kate."
Down. "Don't give up, Kate."
Up. "Find me, Kate."
Down. "Don't give up Kate."
Up . . .
Day 2: At the 12th Precinct in New York City, 1 p.m. on May 14, 2014
Kate Beckett walks into the 12th Precinct, feeling every eye follow her to her desk. She doesn't belong here. She's not supposed to be here. Everyone knows it. And every look, every glance, is a reminder to her of this.
She decided earlier this morning that the last place she wanted to stay was in the Hamptons. The police there will get in touch with her if anything is needed. She grabbed Javier, Martha and Alexis the first thing this morning and drove them back to the city with her. She had correctly assumed that they wanted to get the hell out of dodge as well. Right now, their Hamptons retreat is anything but the peaceful getaway that it is supposed to be. Right now, it is a reminder of everything – everyone – they have lost.
She is grateful to see Kevin Ryan at his desk, along with Esposito. She had dropped him off at the front door late this morning when they arrived back into the city, before heading to Castle's loft, where she dropped off his mother and daughter, promising to keep them updated. They, in turn, promised to contact her immediately if they hear anything.
"So, what do we know?" she asks her two long-time friends, as Captain Victoria Gates makes her way out of her office to greet her detectives.
"Kate – I am so sorry," Gates tells her, with genuine sadness showing on her face.
"Yeah, me, too," Kate replies, "but not as sorry as someone is going to be. Now what do we know?" she asks again, this time more forcefully.
Gates nods in understanding. The woman, her detective, is all business this morning. Good. She is in the proper frame of mind – angry and focused. She will need to be both.
"Not a thing, Beckett," Esposito answers, glancing at Kevin Ryan who has just given him an update minutes before.
"Look guys, he can't just have disappeared into thin air," Kate tells the room at large. "Someone saw something. A passerby. Someone had to see something," she repeats with frustration.
"So far no witnesses have come forward, Kate," Ryan tells her, trying to make the conversation as personal as possible. He knows this isn't going to be a clinical, emotionally detached Beckett they are dealing with. Not for this case – no matter how much she tries.
"And no ransom note," Esposito adds, just as frustrated. "No letter, no audio tape, no video, no You-Tube, not even a damn Vine. Nothing!"
"Well, someone took him," Kate says angrily. "At some point, they have to reach out. They took him for a reason. And we all know, usually that reason is money."
"Uh . . . Beckett . . . Kate," Esposito asks, gingerly. "Does Castle have as much money as we all have always kind of . . . assumed that he –"
"He has more than enough," she interrupts. "Whoever took him will know this. He is recognizable, and the news stations have been flooding his picture constantly since last night."
Captain Gates has been taking in the exchange, and – hating to be the negative one – has hesitated to ask the question. Now, she decides, she can wait no longer.
"Are we sure . . . are we absolutely certain that Mr. Castle didn't . . . that he . . ."
"Are we certain that he what, sir?" Kate asks, clearly agitated at where she believes – knows – this line of questioning is headed.
"Are we certain that Mr. Castle didn't leave of his own volition?" Gates asks her detectives. "Look, I know you don't want to consider this," she says, as she feels six eyes boring into her with deadly accuracy – and intent.
"He wouldn't do that, sir," Kate struggles between gritted teeth, angry at the very insinuation that this isn't what it appears to be – a kidnapping.
"He wouldn't, sir," Esposito agrees. "You have to know Castle, sir, and you . . . you really don't. He followed, chased, ran down our girl here for what . . . six years?
"Six years," Ryan quickly chimes in, agreeing with his partner. "No way Castle gets cold feet or gives up or changes his mind. Not with Kate. Not after all this time."
"Then where is the ransom request?" Gates almost shouts, angrily. "Where is the evidence?"
"The better question, guys, is who would want to do this?" Esposito asks. "Who would want to kidnap Castle on his wedding day? And are they trying to hurt Castle? Or were they trying to punish Kate for something?"
"That's a pretty long list in either case," Kevin Ryan replies, wistfully. "Wouldn't know where to even start."
"Start with the most obvious ones first," Kate says quickly, her mind starting to race. She walks to their murder board, and as she begins to clear it off and erase it, she stalls, stone silent.
"What is it, Detective Beckett?" Gates asks her. But Esposito knows. So does Ryan. This is a murder board. Not a burglary board. Not a kidnapping board. It's a path they know their partner is not ready to traverse.
"He's not dead, Kate," Esposito comments softly. "Now let's get to work."
Kate nods her head quickly, blinking away the hint of tears that threaten to arrive.
"Bracken," she comments, writing the name on the board.
"Negative," Ryan tells her. "He's in prison, awaiting trial. He's got bigger problems than spoiling your wedding."
All three nod their heads at Kate, who subsequently begins writing a second name.
"Scott Dunn," she says aloud.
"Already checked on him," Esposito tells her. "First thing this morning, while we were still out in the Hamptons. He's safely incarcerated at the Federal facility.
"Jerry Tyson," Kate offers, risking a quick glance at Kevin Ryan, who expresses – exudes – guilt any time the Triple Killer's name is even mentioned.
"Presumed dead," Gates tells them. "There has been no sighting, no hints, no innuendo that he is even alive."
"Vulcan Simmons," Ryan offers.
"Dead," both Kate and Esposito say, simulataneously.
"Any jealous ex-lovers, Detective?" Gates asks, risking the hop into Kate's personal life, hoping that the writer's safe and timely returns trumps any hesitancy to share that Kate might ask.
"Her ex's are all cops, sir," Esposito responds quickly.
"Well, not all of them," Ryan corrects him.
"Who?" Gates asks.
"Oh yeah . . . motorcycle boy," Esposito adds. "Dr. Josh Davidson."
"Not his style," Kate immediately counters. "He wouldn't do this."
"Don't be so quick to give everyone alibi's or to dismiss anyone," Gates warns them, and each nods in agreement. Still, before long, another dozen or so names adorn the board, each with a rock solid alibi that the detectives know will be ironclad.
"Maybe we're going about this all wrong," Ryan interjects. "These are people who would have something in for Beckett. Kidnapping Castle hurts her, yeah. But what if they actually meant to hurt Castle? Who would want to hurt him?"
"Besides his ex-wives?" Esposito offers, with a smirk.
'Not funny, Javi," Kate counters, testily. "Stay on point here," she says, but her eyes soften as she knows she has come across too harshly. These are her friends, and they are only trying to help. And everyone deals with things in their own way. She cannot begrudge her friend for his way.
"Where would we even start with Mr. Castle?" Captain Gates asks. Suddenly, the room gets eerily, and frighteningly quiet, as realization sinks in with each of them.
"Do you even know who his best friends are?" Esposito asks.
"The Mayor, for one," Kate replies. "I think we can rule him out."
"College buddies? Writer buddies? Maybe a parent who he pissed off when Alexis was growing up?" Ryan asks.
"I . . . I don't know," Kate admits, and the admission scares her. She begins to realize – remind herself actually – how little she knows about Richard Castle's life before his arrival to the 12th Precinct. She knows he's been married twice, is a good dad, and plays poker with some well-known writers. But who he may have pissed off?
"The Russian," Kate says suddenly. "I have to go back and review my notes. But when Alexis was kidnapped, it ended up being some Russian who had an axe to grind with . . . with Castle somehow," she corrects herself, not certain if anything about Castle's father is hers to reveal.
"I thought you said the perpetrators were killed," Gates asks, her eyes narrowing at Kate Beckett.
"That is true, in so far as we know," Kate replies, evenly without backing down. "But we only know what Castle told me," she admits.
"Well, I suggest that we do some homework, people," Gates responds. "Let's find out whatever we can about Mr. Castle. His friends, people he has helped, people he has hurt, people from his college days. I don't want to leave any stone unturned, is this clear?"
"Crystal," Kate tells her, on behalf of her two partners and herself. She watches as her captain takes her leave, returning to her office. "What do you think, guys?" she asks her two friends.
"He didn't do this," Esposito tells her. "Don't worry about that for one minute. Someone took him. We will find him."
Still Day 2: Now the evening, Captivity on an isolated island offshore from Tangier Island
The cool night air feels wonderful to Richard Castle, now fully clothed again for the past couple of hours. Thankfully no more helicopter visits have occurred, and there hasn't been a hint of the beasts on the other side of the fence.
He's eaten half of a can of beans today, but has been drinking water generously. Exercise will keep his strength up – maybe even make him stronger. He has to stay in shape, mentally and physically. He will scarf down the last half of the beans before turning in for the evening. He risks another glance across the fence. Satisfied, he gazes upward at the moonlight sky for a second straight evening. Tonight, is a peaceful night. But the peace is somewhat disconcerting as well.
Where are the guards?
Where are the captors?
What do they want?
Why would anyone take him?
Why haven't they shown themselves to him already?
Knowing he has plenty of time – plenty of time – to ask and answer such questions, Richard Castle begins stripping the clothes off yet again. He knows the heat will return tomorrow morning, and would rather not wake up in a sweat again. Tonight is a reprieve, he realizes. Tomorrow, his friends across the fence will likely be hungry again. Tonight, they are most likely sated from their previous meal. But tomorrow. . .
"Tomorrow will take care of itself," he reminds himself. "Tomorrow will take care of itself."
He gathers his clothes, and walks back inside the cabin, naked and ready to turn in for the evening. He gets inside and glances at the marker on the bed. He had found the marker this morning when he went into the box to get a can of beans. He had rummaged through, and seen – in the light – what he had missed on the bottom of the box in the dark the previous evening.
A single, simple, felt writing marker. Something he can write with. He picks up the marker and walks to the closed door, and places a second vertical mark on the door.
Two days. He will count the days of his captivity. And he will write. He walks to the wall across from the window, where moonlight bathes a part of the wall with a soft light. And he begins to write a note, a letter. A quick note to his wife-that-will-still-be. One that she will never see, of course. But that's no reason not to write. He's not writing for her to read. He's writing to remind himself of why he has to get out of here. Of why he will get out of here.
He writes for just a few moments, then replaces the top of the marker. He doesn't want to run out of ink. This ink, he has decided, is as important as the cans of food, the toilet paper. It is his lifeline.
A half hour later, his eyes finally, slowly close. His mind is tired and finally shutting down. His ears do not pick up the low rumble from the big cats, the soft pattering of feet outside the fence, as two hungry animals lift their noses to the wind, getting a scent, and offer glances at the small building beyond the fence.