The Long Game: 3
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
The Hamptons, 10:30 a.m., March 10, 2012
Richard Castle follows Sheriff Josh Anders to his unmarked cruiser. He nods in understanding, thankful to his old friend for not bringing the more public cruiser with the flashers. Anders returns the nod, as his deputy opens the back door to the vehicle.
"Mr. Castle," the deputy says in greeting.
Castle simply nods his head, and then ducks as he bends down to slide into the back seat. He and Anders have been friends for the past few years, since Castle first bought the beach house. In his role as the sheriff, Anders has a much wider jurisdiction – across the entire county – than the local city police, and is far more experienced in the area, gaining the respect of the locals long ago. When the call came from the NYPD to bring one Richard Castle in for questioning, John Brady – the local Chief of Police – opted to use a friendly – and certainly more experienced - face to bring in the celebrated author.
Castle is quiet during the trip to the police station, or the sheriff's office – he isn't sure where he is being taken. He's assuming the local police department, since this is at the request of the NYPD. Sheriff Anders and his deputy don't talk, allowing Castle to stay inside his own thoughts. Ten minutes later, Castle finds himself walking into the local police station.
He is greeted by Chief Brady, and is immediately taken with the young man's youth. He idly wonders if the chief is as inexperienced as he looks.
"Probably why they sent Josh," he thinks to himself, smiling.
"Thanks Sheriff," the chief says, throwing a wave towards Anders. Then turning his attention back to his captive author, he continues. "Find something amusing, Mr. Castle?" the chief begins as he ushers him into an interrogation room.
"Okay, perhaps not so inexperienced. We'll see."
"I have nothing to hide, and nothing to be concerned about," Castle states amiably. "That is, nothing other than the fact that the madman who kidnapped my daughter and mother only two weeks ago, seems to have orchestrated an escape from the federal police for the second time in two years. So, correction – that I do find concerning."
Taking a 'do not screw with me' attitude works, as the younger chief is slightly taken aback with the aggressive nature of the man he is supposed to be questioning. The chief, though, recovers and continues, undeterred. Sheriff Anders sits at the other end of the table, smiling to himself. Yeah, he knows Richard Castle pretty well, and the author's posture tells him something important: he is innocent. He's seen Castle when he's wearing his 'I am guilty' demeanor, and this isn't it.
No, it's not the normal beach shenanigans for which the author is now considered legendary. But Anders is really good at reading people, and what he is reading now is a pissed off individual who is concerned for his family. He will let the chief go through his 'twenty questions', though.
"Video surveillance caught the perps dragging Mr. Dunn into the bar," Mr. Castle. "Your bar."
Castle sits impassively, not saying a word. The chief continues.
"There was no forced entry. No jimmying of the lock. They used a key," the chief says. "Now how do you suppose they got a key, Mr. Castle?" he asks. "To your bar."
Castle remains quiet, simply staring at the younger police chief.
"And how, Mr. Castle, do you explain how they knew about the tunnels underneath," he continues. "Underneath your bar."
Castle's continued silence begins to unnerve the chief, and just as he is about to try a different tactic, Sheriff Anders steps in from the other side of the table.
"I am guessing from your silence that you are choosing the 'I am not saying anything without my lawyer present' stance, Rick?"
"Not at all Josh," Castle finally says, smiling briefly at his friend, and then returning his gaze – smile intact – to Chief Brady.
"You ask very good questions, Chief, I will give you that," Castle tells him. "For the past – oh, four or so years – I've spent a good deal of time in interrogation rooms with the NYPD – on your side of the table, of course, asking similar questions. And the questions you are asking right now are exactly the same exact questions I am asking myself as well."
"Well, Mr. Cast-"
"And if you will allow me to continue," Castle interrupts, "it is my daughter that was kidnapped, it was my mother who was kidnapped, it was the daughter of my friend who was kidnapped, it was the doctor treating my . . . my . . . my partner who was kidnapped. And now the man who has done all of these things is free. Now, if I am a person of interest in this, then that is the dumbest leap I've seen a police department make, because if there is one person on this planet who never, never – and I do mean never – wants to see Scott Dunn again, well that person is me."
With that, Castle stands, pushing himself back from the table.
"So, I know this has been a brief chat, but if you are going to arrest me, then arrest me. If you need to hold me for the NYPD, then just throw me in your holding cell until they get here," he tells the now increasingly flustered chief of police. He doesn't like showing up the younger man, but honestly, his patience is at its end right about now. For all he knows, Scott Dunn is free and planning his next move against those he believes that Detective Kate Beckett considers dear. He needs to get away from this man, clear his head . . .
"But I promise you," he concludes, "I have absolutely nothing to add, nothing that will help you solve this riddle – and believe me, that disappoints me far more than it does you." With that, he walks toward the door to leave the interrogation room.
"Where do you think you're going?" an incredulous police chief asks his 'guest', while Sheriff Anders also stands, a bit perplexed at where his friend thinks he is going.
"To my holding cell," Castle half smiles. "I know there are other people who want to ask questions as well.
Three and a half hours later, he is walking out of the police station, after completing a half hour battery of questions from New York's finest detectives. Well, not really – because no one from the 12th made the trip from the city to question him. He doesn't know if he is disappointed or not with that little fact.
He brushes by the New Yorkers on his way out. It took the detectives roughly three hours to make the trek from the city, and so a half hour of discussion has left them – well, a little peeved.
"Need a ride, Rick?" the Sheriff asks him.
"You're still here?" asks Castle, clearly surprised and appreciative of his friend.
"Well, this is the most exciting thing to happen here for a few months, y'know," Anders chuckles, and Castle releases some pent up emotions with a small laugh himself.
"Thanks, I will take you up on that, old friend," he tells him, as the two men walk towards the sheriff's cruiser.
Richard Castle's Home in the Hamptons, 3:00 p.m., March 10, 2012
Richard Castle walks up the stairs to his beach home toward the front door, and a horrible sense of déjà vu assaults the writer. The last time he opened the door to his home this morning – with his daughter in tow – he was greeted by his mother wearing an odd look, the television sporting a not-so-funny report, and the sheriff driving up the long driveway to pick him up.
He pauses for a moment, glancing back at the retreating cruiser of the sheriff who has just returned him to his home, and shrugs away the thought.
Opening the door, he walks in, this time to be greeted by a highly relieved Martha Rodgers and her granddaughter, both of whom have been sitting on the sofa, keeping track of the 'story of the year' on the local television stations. The women rise from the sofa in greeting, both scurrying towards Castle and enveloping him in a long embrace.
"I'm good, I'm good," he tells them, and one glance at his daughter – just one glance is all it takes – and the righteous anger he has kept quelled all afternoon bubbles to the surface. The man – the mad dog – who kidnapped his baby girl is free again, and the look in her eyes tells it all for him. She's not afraid, she's not nervous.
She is absolutely beside herself in terror.
She wonders if he is coming for her again. She wonders when – not if – but when it will start all over again. He pulls her back into his grasp, both of them, and tries to calm both of their fears.
"I'm calling in help," he tells them. "We won't be alone, out here like sitting ducks," he promises when the doorbell rings.
"You have got to be kidding me," he mutters aloud, reluctantly breaking their embrace as he heads to the front door.
He opens the door. It's been a long morning and longer afternoon already. His patience long gone, he is ready to snap at whoever is on the other side. He stops.
He does not know this man.
The silver-haired man stands in the doorway, just staring at Castle – taking him in. If he didn't know better, Castle would swear the man was viewing him as a long-lost friend from long, long ago.
"Who is it, Richard?" Martha Rodgers asks him from roughly six or seven steps behind the door where she still holds on to his daughter.
Before he can answer, the man outside his door cocks his head ever so slightly to the right, so he can see the face behind the voice calling Castle. For him, it is a very familiar voice – one he has not heard directly in a long, long, long time.
She catches his face a split second after he moves to get a look at her. In an almost comical routine, Richard Castle's head seems to swivel back and forth between his mother and the stranger at the door. Scratch that, the stranger who is now moving past him towards his mother.
"Excuse me, Richard," he smiles, without a glance at Castle, his eyes focused on the woman not five paces in front of him. It's clear that this is a man his mother knows.
She almost falters, but instead, plants herself firmly into the floor, a rugged and immovable oak tree. She releases her granddaughter as the man approaches.
Jackson Hunt slowly raises his arms in greeting. Martha hesitates for a few seconds. There is something in her eyes that Castle has never seen there before. He cannot place this 'look' at all. Hell, this has been one crappy day, and now this . . . this - whatever this is . . .
A second later, she slowly takes one step toward Jackson, lifting her arms into his. They hold this position, an intimate embrace that Castle has seen his mother share with absolutely no one – ever – not even himself. Not this kind of intimacy.
"Excuse me?" he finally interrupts. Enough of this. Who is this guy?
"Who are you?" Castle asks.
Hunt ignores him, holding on to the red-haired woman he left so many decades ago.
"Martha."
He says her name, and nothing else. His mother's eyes dance with a life of their own, and he can tell that she is getting ready to return the greeting. She knows his real name.
He shakes his head subtly, but she catches it, she sees the instruction in his eyes, and understands immediately. He will introduce himself.
"Mother?" Castle asks.
"Grams?" Alexis manages.
The man releases her – only slightly – from their embrace, enough so that he can turn and face Castle.
"I know this is awkward," he begins with a slight smile. It's a bit of a cold smile, one that disarms Castle immediately. "There is not a good way to do this," he continues.
"Honestly, this wasn't supposed to happen for . . . well, ever. But events of late have transpired that are out of my control, that have forced me to –"
"Who are you? Castle asks again, this time with a bit more force. "And what are you doing in my house?"
The silver-haired guest glances again at Martha, who only nods with a smile.
"I am your father, Richard."