Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
It's horrifying and mesmerizing. He has never seen anyone cry the way she is, even in a movie. Her whole body is involved, including her feet, which are curled around the front legs of her chair as if to stabilize her. She's anything but stable, but the strange and unsettling thing is that she's making no sound. It's like watching someone in a Greek tragedy who is consumed by an awful, elemental force so mighty that it mutes her. Her mouth is open wide, as if she were in both physical and emotional pain. Tears are drenching the front of her tee shirt, and her nose is running; she's rocking in an odd rhythm, her arms locked like bands across her chest. He curses himself for not having a handkerchief, but no handkerchief would be equal to the task. He's not equal to the task, either, and is paralyzed with indecision. How should he respond? Should he hug her? Go find a box of Kleenex? Say something? Say nothing? What prompted this? He's so alarmed by her state that he can't think straight.
What happened?
Coffee. Oh, God, he'd said he had coffee in the car that he'd brought from home. For a long time coffee was the thing that connected them: a comfort, an apology, a resolution, a celebration. Until a few months ago, it was the bridge where, even in the worst times, they could meet in the middle. That must be it. Mustn't it? He pushes his chair away from the table, stands up, and leans slightly towards her.
"I'm going to get the coffee, okay?" he says softly. "I'll be right back."
When he reaches the door he looks back. She's still rocking, still crying.
He walks down the short, dimly-lit corridor, opens the door to the main area of the station, and pokes his head in. "Sergeant?"
Masden looks up from his desk, a pen in his right hand and half a doughnut in his left, as large and leathery as a catcher's mitt. "Yeah?"
"Beck–. Detective Beckett is in interrogation. I pushed the button in so the door is locked. That okay? I have a Thermos of coffee in my car and I'd like to get it. She could use it."
"Yeah. I noticed."
"So it's all right?"
"Yeah. Go on."
There are moments when he's glad that he doesn't have to think about money, and this is one of them. By now coffee in an ordinary Thermos would be tepid, but in his outrageously worth-every-dollar model it will still be hot. He looks down the street and wonders if there's a market in Berryville that sells vanilla. At seven o'clock, or whatever it is, on a Sunday morning. Never mind. He gets the Thermos from the front seat and checks the glove compartment. Good, there's a little package of Oreos in there; maybe he could get Beckett to choke down a cookie. Half a cookie. A bite. A crumb. He has a small first-aid kit there, too, and finds a packet of aspirin. Part of him wonders if he should just get in the car and go home. Find a decent lawyer and send him or her to the police station, because this is too much for him. He's still hurt and he's still angry. But so is she, and he doesn't know why. And when she broke down just now, she seemed so vulnerable. He runs his tired hands over his tired eyes, and shuts the car door.
He's not going home.
Fifteen feet from the station, he stops. He told her that he "brought the coffee from home." Home. Home. Something about home is niggling at him. Ah. She'd said that before that son of a bitch attacked her "I was on my way home." But home, lower Manhattan, must be 120 miles from here. Why would she be getting on her motorcycle at that hour and going home? Why was she here at all? It doesn't track. So what if it's early? He's texting Ryan. Find out what the hell is going on. But he can't stay out here and wait, not when she's waiting inside for him. If she even registered his saying he was going to get the coffee.
Is he invading her privacy? Maybe. He's not going to say anything about her arrest or the booze, just–just what? Hell. He pulls out his phone and starts texting before he loses his nerve.
"Hi, Ryan. Hope you and Jenny are well. I know I told you I was done, but I'm concerned about Beckett. I dropped by her apartment a couple of weeks ago, but she didn't answer the buzzer. Someone was on the way out of the building, so I went up and slipped a note under the door." Yes, it's a lie. He's telling an NYPD detective a lie. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few moments and continues typing. "I texted her a few times after that but didn't hear from her. Just want to make sure she's OK. Thanks. Castle."
He puts his phone on vibrate, shoves it in his pocket, and re-enters the station. "Coffee," he says, holding up the Thermos so Masden can see that he's not transporting a weapon or a giant file to break Beckett out of here. He suddenly remembers a case almost two years ago, about love. His mother said that being willing to break someone out of prison is true love. When the boys and Beckett and he were talking about it later at the precinct, Beckett said, "Don't worry, Castle. I'd get you out." He has to get her out of here, but legally.
Could you let me back into interrogation, please?"
"Mm-hmm." Masden has a doughnut in his hand. There's only two bites out of it, so it's not the one that he'd been polishing off a few minutes ago. It occurs to Castle that he might eat the entire dozen today, by himself.
"Sorry to bother you," he says, forbidding himself to add "you sugar-glazed cretin." Maybe he should be nicer to the guy. At least he let him leave Beckett unattended in interrogation while he went to get his Thermos.
"No problem." He waddles down the corridor again, Castle in his wake, and jingles an enormous ring of keys before unlocking the door and returning to his desk and doughnut.
Beckett has stopped crying, but her head is on her arms on the table.
"Got the coffee," he says, aiming for chirpiness but failing.
She raises her head slowly and blinks, looking even worse than she had an hour ago. "Why did you come back?"
"Just now?" He feels as if he's been dropped into a tub of ice.
"Yeah."
"I went to the car to get the coffee I made. I think you–we– could use some. He unscrews the cap, removes the two cups that nestle inside, and pours the coffee, pleased to see steam still rising from it. "Here," he says, pushing one cup across the table to her. "That's the clean one. I already drank from the other. And here's something else." His back pocket is home to the Oreos and aspirin, and he offers them to her. She hasn't said anything, so he sits down on his chair. "You must have one hell of a headache. The aspirin will help, and so will the sugar in the cookies."
"Thanks," she mumbles, looking at the coffee rather than at him, and moving the Oreos to the side. "Can't take the cookies." At least her hands are steady when she tears open the package of aspirin, puts the tablets in her mouth, and washes them down with coffee, but she looks miserable.
"Sorry."
"What for?"
"Sorry the coffee isn't vanilla latte."
"Yeah, well I'm sorry it's not Irish."
That brings the conversation, such as it was, to a halt. The tenderness that had begun to fill him rushes out, and anger takes its place. "You making a habit of drinking whiskey for breakfast, Beckett?"
She reacts as if he's slapped her, which in effect he has. "That's none of your business."
"You're right. None of this is my business." Nothing about her has been his business for months. If she's a drunk, it's none of his business. If she's following her father's path, that's her business. He can't get her off it. Whatever the hell sent her down it is her business. The one thing that is his business is doing something to get her assault charge dismissed. He hadn't been there, but he's certain that she acted in self-defense. He has questions about plenty of things–foremost among them why she's hitting the bottle–but not this. Not this.
Wearily he gets to his feet. "I'm leaving the coffee here for you, and the Oreos. I hope that you'll take them. You said you don't want a lawyer. You're the daughter of two attorneys, so you know the old saying that a person who represents herself has a fool for a client. You're no fool. I will send you a lawyer, my parting offering to you. If you still want to defend yourself, fine, but please meet with him or her."
He walks away, but at the door he has another thought, and looks back. His tone is even and emotionless but honest. "My number hasn't changed. If you need help, call me. I'll answer."
Before he can face Masden again, he needs to steady his breathing. When it's under control again, he goes out. "Hi. I left the coffee for her. I'm going home, but I'm sending a lawyer. Even though it's just a misdemeanor, I'd like her to have one. She deserves it. Officer of the law." He offers the Sergeant his hand, and the big cop shakes it.
"Okay."
"Thanks, Sergeant."
"Welcome." He looks back at his paperwork which is, in fact, the local Sunday paper. He's a busy man.
Castle's standing by his car trying to get his emotional bearings when he's startled by the phone vibrating in his pocket. He grabs it and sees a pair of familiar blue eyes on the screen.
"Ryan? Thanks for calling."
"Hey, Castle. It was great to hear from you. Figured you'd be asleep in the ocean breeze. Everything okay? I mean, other than you're worried about Beckett."
"I am. Um, do you know where she is?"
"Not exactly. After she quit she took off, said she needed time by herself. I haven't heard from her in two months. Javi's back, though. We had a rough time at first but we're good now."
He feels as though he's stumbled into some unknown universe, some perverse Brigadoon, where everything looks right but nothing is. He puts his free hand on the car roof for support. "She quit? Espo quit?"
"You don't know anything about that?"
"Not a thing."
Ryan fills him in on what he's missed. When he gets to the part about Cole Maddox throwing Beckett off the roof, about her calling Castle's name, screaming for help, and Ryan hauling her up to safety, it's too much. Castle just manages to say, "Hold on," before doubling over and throwing up in the gutter. Without a handkerchief, he has to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. "Sorry, Ryan."
"You all right?"
"Not really. Uh, and–so she quit after that?"
"No, she quit after Gates suspended her and Espo. Just tossed her gun and badge on the captain's desk and left. He was off work for three weeks. We were spitting mad at each other, you know? We worked it out, but we miss Beckett like crazy. And you. We miss you."
He's six-two, a grown man, a father, standing in a sleepy town with his former partner hungover and under arrest in the little brick building behind him, and he starts to cry. Not the way Beckett had, though he's as quiet as she was, but equally teary. He coughs as he tries to clear his throat. "Does Espo know where she is?"
"I don't think so, but Lanie must. Or her Dad. You should try him."
There's not a chance of that. But Lanie, maybe. He doesn't want to set off too many alarms, though, so he'll wait. She won't like him calling at this hour; she might not like him calling at all. He doesn't care, and he knows exactly what to do until it's late enough to phone Beckett's best friend.
Half an hour later he pulls into the strip mall where he'd stopped earlier today, a million years ago. There's a line in the Dunkin' Donuts–people getting something to take home for Sunday breakfast–and he joins it.
"Hi, Carol Ann no E," he says when it's his turn. He hasn't been this happy to see someone in ages.
"Hey. Didn't expect to see you so soon again. You already ate that whole box?"
"Not me. I used it as a bribe."
"It work?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"That's 'cause you went for the glazed."
"You're right."
"Hey, buddy," a man behind him says. "You buying or window shopping?"
"Buying, buying," Castle says without giving him the satisfaction of turning around. "I'll take a glazed doughnut and a coffee, please. And a container of milk."
"Coming up. Straws are over there." She tilts her head to the left. "Or didja want a glass? You gonna drink it here?"
"A glass would be nice, thank you."
"Yeesh," the whiner behind him says. "A glass."
"Quiet, Mike," Carol Ann says, rebuke in her tone. "Man has manners. Unlike some I could mention."
Castle carries his breakfast to one of the shop's three small tables. While he sips his coffee, he reads today's New York Times on his phone but can't stick with any story long enough to finish it. At nine he calls Lanie.
"Castle?"
"Guilty."
"Damn right you're guilty. I shouldn't even have accepted this call."
"You ever think whatever story you got from Beckett might have two sides?" He hears her sigh, and then some rustling. Maybe she's getting out of bed. He's sorry but he's not sorry. "Look, Lanie, I just want to know where she is." Correction: he know exactly where she is, and her best friend doesn't. What he wants to know is where she's living. Staying. "I'm pretty sure she's renting a place in the Catskills. In Berryville. Please. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Do you know where it is?"
"You gonna tell me why?"
"Not now. Later. I know you're pissed off, but please. You've known me for four years."
"You're the only person who made her happy, Castle. She's not easy."
"No kidding."
"You want her address or not?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't cut it with me. She's the one you need to say sorry to."
"I know. I won't forget this, Lanie. I promise."
"Fine. It's one thirty-five Miller's Road."
"Thank you."
"Bye."
Not exactly a cordial exchange, but at least he knows where to go. The shop is empty again–a lull until people stop in after church, maybe–and he approaches the counter. "Do you know Berryville at all?"
"Sure. Grew up there. It's not far from here. You thinking of relocating?" She rolls her eyes, the best he's witnessed since one of Beckett's.
"No, but I do need to find a house. You happen to know where Miller's Road is?"
"Yeah. You don't have that what's-it in your car? Gives you directions?"
"I do, but I don't trust it the way I trust you."
"Want me to draw you a map?"
"Please."
She sketches it on another napkin and he thanks her.
"Don't be a stranger," she says.
"I'm not," he answers, giving her a grin."I've already been here twice today."
The trip takes twenty-five minutes; the whole way there he thinks of nothing and everything. He turns on to Miller's Road and sees the mailbox, with three stick-on reflective numbers, 135, in silver and black, imperfectly placed. It's a cabin, with a short flight of steps leading to the front porch. The door is closed, but the window next to it is open. Either Beckett has become very lax about security, or there's no crime around here. Maybe both. He pulls open the screen door and presses the latch on the wooden front door. Presto, he's inside. The interior is plain, almost Spartan. Standing in the living room, he can make out the kitchen in the corner. There's a large bucket in front of the sink, and he doesn't like what he thinks he sees. He walks over and forces himself to take a hard look. It's nothing but liquor bottles–wine, bourbon, Scotch–and they're all empty. What about food? He looks in the fridge. A small piece of cheese, a bag of coffee, and a shriveled bunch of grapes.
It's not his business. She's not my business. It's not his business. It's not. Except maybe it is. Maybe she is. When he began looking into Johanna Beckett's murder three years ago, she was furious. He still remembers every word she said to him then, as if he had been laser-printed with it, or tattooed.
"Castle, you touch my mother's case, and you and I are done. Do you understand?"
"Okay. Why don't you want to investigate it?"
"Same reason a recovering alcoholic doesn't drink."
The same reason a recovering alcoholic doesn't drink. So why in hell is she drinking?
TBC
A/N Thank you again for such support. You can't imagine how much I appreciate it.