Holiday – Chapter 2
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.
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A/N: Thank you to everyone who is reading, following, adding this story to your favorite lists – and the reviews. They have swung through the full gamut of responses. Some don't like it, and won't read it. I am okay with that, because I realize this storyline is not everyone's cup of tea. There are far too many good stories on this site to waste your time with a storyline you don't care for.
There are others of you, however, who seem to want to stay the course with the story, but aren't very happy with the current state. (smile) For you, I simply ask you to be patient. From the beginning of this arc (back in The Wonder), I warned that this was all about the redemption of Kate Beckett. The question in our minds should be 'redemption from what'? That's the question. But - as I mentioned to CWT after a thoughtful review - remember, redemption in any form is not easy; it is hard, it is messy, and it tends to leave a trail of broken emotions. Isn't that Kate Beckett? And further, redemption is not quick – so this isn't anything I wanted to wrap up all nice and neat and tidy inside one story that transpired over a month or two.
I think those of you who stay the course will be rewarded in a surprising manner with where this one goes. Those who opt out, let me say thank you for giving this story an initial glance – and I hope to see you in future stories I might write.
With that said, on to the story . . . picking up right where we left off last chapter.
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December 17, 2013, 9:21 a.m., In the Carpathian Mountains of Romania: Day 107 of Isolation
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A tired but suddenly rejuvenated Kate Beckett follows her captor and liberator as she walks toward the mountain's ledge, and stops. She snow is easily calf height, and it is coming down lightly. The Russian allows her newly-released captive to join her as she glances over the ledge, the cold air whipping their hair, stinging their skin – and biting deeply into their bodies. It is Beckett's first direct view of civilization – and another human being – in months.
"You'll need this," Elena tells her, handing her a coat, the cold air forming puffs of smoke as she speaks.
Wordlessly, Kate simply nods her head as she puts the heavy piece of clothing on, grateful as she only now begins to feel the cold of the Romanian winter. She glances down at the village, which like the mountain on which she stands, is blanketed in snow.
"It is so beautiful," the ex-detective remarks. It is the first hint of passion or emotion that the Russian has observed since she has opened the metal door, freeing her friend.
"Indeed," is all she says as she begins to walk toward her left, as the ledge convenes with the mountainside, forming a literal walkway around the mountain. There is roughly two feet of ledge, as Kate follows her, careful and quite unsure in her footing. It is treacherous going, with Kate glancing down off the cliffs more than occasionally, noting the depth of the fall that awaits anyone who slips or loses their balance. She notes that her companion doesn't seem fazed in the least, moving quickly. It is obvious she has done this many times before.
Elena leads her roughly one hundred and eighty degrees directly behind the cave's entrance on the other side of the pointed mountain. At this height, it takes about thirty minutes. Four months ago, traversing such a pathway would have been difficult – almost impossible for Beckett. Now? Difficult yes. Impossible? Hardly.
They come to an opening – still well over a mile above the village below and behind them on the other side of the mountain now. Kate smiles as she sees the chopper waiting there. She notes the tall metal door – a wall actually – built into the mountainside that she realizes most likely leads to the back of the refrigerator inside.,
"That's how my food was delivered," she comments, matter-of-factly.
"Yes," is Elena's terse response.
"You?" Kate asks, questioningly.
"Yes," is the one word response, again.
"Thank you," Kate replies, a small smile creeping across her features. Elena returns the smile with a question of her own.
"I suppose you're probably wondering why we didn't just take the chopper up here the first time," Elena remarks.
"Not really," Kate remarks, surprising her companion, as both women make their way to the waiting Agusta A109 aircraft. Sleek and fast, the helicopter is ideal for basic transport as well as high mountain rescues. Elena gets in on the pilot side while Kate slides comfortably into the seat adjacent to the pilot seat.
Within a minute, the chopper is lifting upward into the winds of the Carpathian Mountains. While not a virgin when it comes to helicopters, the scene – and situation – are somewhat intense for the newly-freed passenger.
"My God," Kate mutters as she glances out the window below.
"Yes, I agree," Elena murmurs appreciatively, wondering exactly what changes isolation has brought to her companion, but pleased with the initial set of observations. There was no panic, no anger when she opened the door to release Kate Beckett. Instead, was something of an acceptance, and a strong determination. She smiles at the recent memory.
Elena Markov banks the aircraft hard to the left, avoiding the town below. The maneuver catches her companion's attention.
"I take it we aren't going back down there," Kate points with her thumb as she eyes the pilot.
"No," Elena replies. "We are not. As I told you, we are headed to New York."
"In this rickety old thing?" Kate asks, smiling.
"Of course not," the Russian chuckles. There is an airfield about thirty miles from here with an aircraft that is . . . larger than our friend here."
"I certainly hope so," Kate remarks. "So what is so urgent in New York that required you to release me, and early at that?"
"It is best you see for yourself, Kate" Elena tells her. As she flies the craft, she retrieves a small mini-tablet from her inside chest pocket and hands it to the ex-detective from the NYPD.
"Let us see exactly how far you have come," Elena tells her, and a cold shiver that has nothing to do with the cold weather runs up Beckett's spine as she hits the power button, turning the device on.
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Three Days Ago - December 14, 2013, 12:37 p.m., at a diner in New York City
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The crashing noise from the kitchen just off to his left – from his vantage point – draws Richard Castle's attention away from the attractive redhead who sits across the table from him. Normally he is a man who prefers sitting against the window, where he can watch the people walking by. It's the observant writer's nature about him. In this particular establishment, however, Castle prefers to be closer to the kitchen, picking up the aromas that float from the back and enjoying the banter that can be heard from there.
"Another series of plates demolished," he muses aloud with a smile, his eyes twinkling.
"Poor Rico," his companion smiles with him. "I have to say, I am surprised that Marco has not given him the boot by now."
Castle simply nods his head as he returns his attention to the beautiful woman with him for lunch today. Eliza Rourke has become an on-again/off-again companion for the writer these past few months. True, they have become close. Not 'intimate close', but certainly on their way. She fascinates him. He is both intrigued by the younger woman, as well as wary of her.
He is intrigued because she is vibrant, brave and beautiful – and she becomes even more so with each passing day. Each conversation pulls him deeper into the web she unintentionally spins.
He is wary because she is . . . well there is no other way to say it. She is the daughter of a mobster. And not just any mobster. This is one that Castle knows, and knows well. And despite the current warm currents flowing between the author and mobster, Castle knows how quickly things can turn frosty with it comes to Finn Rourke. Rourke is the undisputed leader of the Westies, the Irish gang in the city, and he has a reputation – one well earned – for brutality. The only thing that trumps his brutal nature is an unwavering sense of loyalty. Of family.
Richard Castle has become entrenched in the loyalty part. Saving the old Irish man's daughter during the explosion before the summer more or less cemented that.
The family equation? Yeah, he is wary of that. In the end, that is not something one dips one's toe into. With Finn Rourke, you're either in or you're out. And once in – there is only one way out. For this reason, Castle has kept his toes firmly in his shoes, and his shoes to himself, thank you very much. It is a dance that he and this beautiful woman have been doing for a couple of months now, and thankfully, she knows it, her father knows it.
And Castle knows it.
For now, it seems to be enough for Eliza Rourke. But he wonders how long it will remain so.
For this reason, Castle has been doing something for the past ten or eleven weeks that has not come naturally to him. He's simply let this relationship come and go – not trying to pull her in, and yet not pushing her away. It is a refreshing pace after the long, arduous but exciting chase that was Kate Beckett . . . which ended so abruptly, so surprisingly . . . so badly.
It has been almost four months since she left – after giving him the impression that she'd return in four or five weeks, tops. It is just another disappointment from the ex-NYPD detective, one that he is committed not to allow to repeat.
Yet here, this afternoon – the ex-Detective, ex-Federal Agent, ex-love of his life is front and center on his mind – despite the beautiful alternative sitting across from him. And that's the problem. Right now, Eliza is an alternative. She deserves to be so much more than simply that. Perhaps it's his chivalry, or just Martha's manners instilled deep within him . . . but he refuses to place the west side bartender on such a selfish – and precarious – perch in his life.
His attention returns to the television set hanging on the wall, waiting to see if the news reporters say anything else about grisly murder about which they have just reported. He shakes his head, recognizing it for what he knows it to be: a challenge.
"Damn her and her righteous war," he mutters under his breath.
"What was that, Richard?" Eliza asks, as she wipes the remnants of buttered toast from her lips with the small white napkin.
"Nothing, Red," he smiles, using the nickname he has come up with for her. No, it is nothing original. It's cute, it's personal . . . but it's not intimate. He's not there yet. But it's getting harder to avoid. A reckoning of sorts is imminent, and it worries him.
"Nothing at all," he lies as he wonders what all of this will mean for him . . . for Alexis . . . for Martha . . . and for the woman at the table with him, and her father.
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Present Time: December 17, 2013, 10:03 a.m., Flying along the Carpathian Mountains
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Kate Beckett stares wordlessly out of the side of the window, glancing at the white-covered mountainside as she and Elena Markov fly in a westerly direction toward the airfield that she has promised awaits. The pilot – unseen by Kate – smiles under her breath at the reaction she has witnessed from her friend beside her.
Kate had pulled up the first document – downloaded from the New York Times three days ago. There are three documents that she has been instructed to peruse. The first story details a murder – on the surface, nothing unusual about that in New York City.
A body had been found, on December 14th. Another murder in the city. As she read the first lines, she wondered aloud why this would pertain to her. She's not a part of the 12th anymore, she's not a federal agent anymore. She's not . . . well, she's not really anything anymore, at the moment.
"Keep reading," was the terse response from her companion who focused her attention on the horizon ahead.
Kate has complied, and Elena has searched her friend – from the corner of her eye – searching for the tell-tale signs of the old Kate Beckett. She is relieved to see none.
Make no mistake - the words from the tablet reach out and assault the auburn-haired beauty. Her eyes have narrowed, and unconsciously she has started the calming breathing exercises that she began to practice during her months in isolation.
She reads about the body that was found underneath what is known as the 'Survivor Tree' – a Callery pear tree that was twice-transplanted after the horrific terror attack of September 11, 2001 on the World Trade Center. The tree had been discovered in early October of 2001 at Ground Zero, badly damaged. Roots snapped and burned. Branches broken. A piece of nature shredded. The tree was removed from the rubble and transported to the NYC Department of Parks and Recreation before eventually being returned to the Memorial location nine years later in 2010. Now, new limbs grow forth from the gnarled stumpy remains. Where the tree died and came back to life is easily visible on the natural structure. What has been a living testament to the resurrection of life, is now – with the dead body found beneath it – once again a place of grisly death.
In an expression of sadistic humor, a few old-school vinyl record albums lay scattered about the body. Old Partridge Family albums. But the next words from the article have gripped her once-damaged heart and jolted it once again.
"Police are questioning the desecration of the woman's body. The name 'Johanna' was carved into the right side of the victim's lower back."
For a brief instant, the hands holding onto the tablet begin to slightly tremble. It is just for a second or two before Kate Beckett recovers – it is almost imperceptible.
Almost.
Her pilot companion notices however. She also notices how quickly her friend recovers.
"Read the next one," Elena tells her, and Kate numbly closes the document, and then clicks on the second document.
The date on this document is December, 15th. A day later, a second body was discovered underneath the Rockefeller Christmas tree on the backside of the tree. The body was found by a visiting family from New Jersey, effectively ruining their holiday season. Kate notes that the press has now used that name for the killer – dubbed "the Holiday killer".
This second body was found with two bars of soap, a bar in each hand, tightly gripped in death. Atop the body was a colorfully wrapped gift box, wrapped with red ribbons and a red bow. The bomb squad was brought in as a precaution to open the box. Upon opening, a simple – and safe – VHS video tape was found inside. One of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movies from over a decade ago. Upon turning the body over, sure enough, the name 'Johanna' was carved into the lower right back of this young woman, like the body found the previous day.
"A partridge in a pear tree, and two turtle doves," Kate quickly recognizes. She nods with bitter understanding, realizing that a new serial killer has been unleashed on her city.
Her city.
Without waiting for Elena to respond, she closes this document, and opens the third document. The date, of course, is December 16th. By now, she knows the theme that is being uncovered.
With this article, the killer has been renamed yet again. Now he – or she – is simply being referred to as 'Holiday'. With the third body found, the twelve days of Christmas theme is unmistakable, undeniable.
The third body was found in the kitchen of an upscale French restaurant in Manhattan. Found by the chef as he entered the kitchen in the early morning hours. This time it is a young black woman, barely twenty years old if that – with her mouth stuffed with the feathers of a small French hen. The rest of the bird was found in a pot of sitting water on the large stove. When the authorities flipped the body over, the same name – 'Johanna' – is carved into the lower back of the unfortunate victim.
By now, the police and press have figured out that the carvings into each body are not mere messages – no, they are challenges. Someone, somewhere is being called out. And Kate has no illusions as to who is being challenged in this brutal game of wits.
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Two Days Ago - December 15, 2013, 12:14 p.m., at a Richard Castle's loft New York City
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The ringing phone startles Richard Castle, drawing his attention from the words on his large Mac computer where he is working on his newest novel. It has taken some time, but he has found a new character to write about. It is a point of pride for him that this new character is not based upon some muse. No beautiful woman. No self-inspired private detective. No, this story is about a family man – happily married, two children. A slice of Americana.
Except for the fact that this lead character is an assassin for the CIA. He isn't sure from where this inspiration comes, but he is simply excited to be writing again. And writing consistently.
He reaches over to turn the cell phone toward him, and purses his lips when he sees the caller identification. He has been waiting – since the newscast yesterday afternoon and last night – for a call from one of them. One or the other.
"Hey Javi," he answers after the third ring. "I can't say I am surprised to hear from you."
"Hey Castle," his old friend replies. "It's been a while."
"Yes it has, my friend," Castle remarks, his mind immediately going back to times earlier this year . . . last year, and the year before . . . and the year before that.
"I suppose this is about the body yesterday," Castle continues.
"Actually," Detective Javier Esposito replies, "this is about the body today as well as the body yesterday."
"Another body?" Castle almost shouts, his mind now racing. Suddenly a knock at the door to the loft snaps the writer away from the phone conversation and he walks briskly to the door. Glancing through the peephole, he frowns and murmurs as he unlocks the door, opening it to the detective.
"Yep, found it this morning," his old friend tells him as he walks into the loft. Before he can continue, Castle is asking questions – rapid fire. The memories come flooding back to the detective as he smiles.
"What are you doing here? Where was the body found? Man or woman? Any similarities to the body yesterday?"
"Easy there, buddy," Esposito chuckles. "The body was found at the Rockefeller Christmas tree. It is another woman again, and yeah – carvings on the body."
"Johanna?" Castle asks.
"Yes, you know it is. You know that's why I'm calling. I know you made it clear you want nothing to do with the 12th anymore . . ."
Esposito leaves the accusing thought hanging in the air, and for a brief instant, the joviality and friendly nature of the call is threatened. Fortunately, Castle defuses the situation for both men before it gets uncomfortable.
"You know what I meant, Javier," Castle defends. "I had to –"
"We know, Castle," Kevin Ryan interrupts, as he too walks in. "We all know. We do. But back to this . . . someone is calling her out, Castle. Someone wants her. Bad. And we have no idea where she is."
"Neither do I," Castle quickly – almost too quickly – replies gruffly as he walks back to the door, glancing out into the hallway. "Anybody else out there with you guys waiting to come inside?"
"No, just us," Esposito replies, walking toward the kitchen area of the loft.
"Kevin," the author says softly by way of greeting.
"Hey Castle," his other friend from the 12th Precinct replies. "The press is calling him the holiday killer, because –"
"How was the body found, Javi?" Castle asks, this time his turn to interrupt. "Yesterday was easy – a partridge in – or in this case – under a pear tree. I suppose today was two turtle doves?"
"The worst movie you can think of, with two bars of soap," the Hispanic detective replies.
"The twelve days of Christmas," Castle mutters under his breath, but audible enough for Esposito to hear.
"Which means we potentially have ten more of these damn killings to go," declares Detective Kevin Ryan.
"So you have a holiday killer at large, playing a gruesome game following the verses of the worst Christmas song ever," Castle tells both men.
"And he's taunting us," Ryan tells both men.
"He, or she," Castle reminds both men, bringing a chuckle from both. Castle's mind was always open to possibilities.
"So, you didn't answer my first question," Castle suddenly reminds both men. "Why are you here? You could have called. What warranted an in person meeting?"
His heart sinks as both men immediately drop their eyes toward the ground. For two or three seconds, neither man can bring themselves to look at their old friend. It tells Castle everything he needs to know, and he feels the emotional buckshot deep in his stomach.
"You think . . . you're here because I am a suspect," the novelist monotones, his entire demeanor now changing toward his guests.
"More like a person of interest, Castle," Kevin quickly confides. "Me and Javi, we know this isn't you. We both told her –"
"Gates?" Castle questions, his eyes widening.
"She is just covering every base, Castle," Esposito breaks in. "You know how she is. It is obvious someone is searching for Beckett. Someone who knows her. Someone who knows her history. Someone who knows about her mother."
"And someone who has the imagination to even think about killings following a holiday theme," Ryan continues. "She knows that the first set of murders that brought you to the 12th were based on a few of your books. She finds the parallels . . ."
"Incriminating?" Castle asks aloud.
"I believe 'concerning' is the word she used," Esposito answers. "We just came because she asked – and now that we are here, we can tell her to go look under another tree."
"Well, trust me – it's not me, and while you are here wasting your time – and mine – there are other trees you should be shaking. Because tomorrow is day three, and there are twelve days in this stupid song."
"Uh, Castle," Ryan remarks, once again glancing downward. "That's not the only reason we are here."
"Oh great," Castle mutters, as Esposito raises his hand.
"No, no, Castle. We've done our part for her. Now we have a favor."
"She wants my help?" Castle asks, incredulous at the sudden turn of events. It is well known that Captain Victoria Gates wasted no time busting Castle out of the precinct once Kate Beckett was gone. She had no time for . . . hell, he doesn't even remember the term she used. That was long ago.
"Not she," Ryan tells him. "We. Me and Javi. We need your help."