Too Soon Chapter 8: Dream Out Loud
And I must be an acrobat
To talk like this and act like that.
And you can dream, so dream out loud
And you can find your own way out.
And you can build, and I can will
And you can call, I can't wait until
You can stash and you can seize
In dreams begin responsibilities
And I can love, and I can love
And I know that the tide is turning 'round
So don't let the bastards grind you down.
Acrobat - U2
They took Martha and laid her on the couch, tucked a pillow under her knees and put a dampened paper towel on her forehead. She came out of it pretty quickly.
"Well," she woozed. "That was true Rodgers dramatics."
Alexis sat on the floor at her shoulder. "You're in fine form, Grams."
Kate was sitting at her hip, holding her hand. "Are you all right?"
Martha nodded. "I think the tranquilizer kicked in when I wasn't expecting it." She squeezed Kate's fingers gently. "You look a bit peaked yourself, Katherine."
Kate's lip trembled. "I just want this to be over... but it's a kidnapping. So we haven't even started."
Martha sighed. "We can pray he's still alive. I have joint access to several accounts, it should be easy to come up with ransom..."
Kate nodded, knowing in her heart that ransom wasn't even part of the equation. Whoever had Castle... they didn't want money. They wanted revenge. She said gently, "Ryan's in touch with the FBI. They'll head to the crash scene first, and interview us all in the morning." She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was analog, with illustrations of birds on the dial instead of numbered hours. When activated, it played a different recorded bird song at every hour. The sound was disabled due to being irritating as hell, no doubt one of Castle's 'seemed like a good idea at the time' purchases. On the upside, he knew how to identify the call of the Northern Mockingbird. "It's 1:40. So, later this morning."
Martha nodded. "Then we should all try to get some rest." She sat up slowly with Kate's help.
Tears started up in Kate's eyes. "I'd give anything... just to hear the sound of his voice."
"Me too." Martha pressed her fingers over her eyelids, trying to push tears back. She'd cried enough for one day.
Alexis got up and hurried to a bookshelf, took down a slim volume. "That's something I can do." She handed it to Kate with a wide grin.
Kate examined it, puzzled. "This is a romance novel." Then she opened it up. "A book on tape? How old is this thing?"
"Look at the back cover."
"As read by Claire Sainte Victoire..." Kate peered at the black and white photo of a middle-aged – woman? - in glasses, a calico dress, and a pretty floral bonnet. "Oh, my God." She actually laughed. "Are you kidding me? He looks like a cross between Barbara Cartland and Grannie Clampett."
Martha spoke dreamily. "But you know that's not what he sounds like. He did a public reading and told the audience to just close their eyes and listen. Mrs. Sainte Victoire sold almost a hundred copies that night." She grinned. "I was supposed to stand in for him, but I had laryngitis, so I had a friend do a Mrs. Doubtfire makeover on him."
Beckett giggled, reading the blurb aloud: "Mrs. Sainte Victoire just manages to skim the moist, pink, pulsing lips of decency. A surprisingly deep, funny, scathingly political read, topped with whipped cream and a farmers' market strawberry." She glanced around. "Is there even a tape player in this house?"
Martha chuckled. "The boy cannot throw anything away."
Alexis nodded. "He still has his first Mac in storage." She went back to the wall shelf and opened up a door that concealed not only a VCR but a record turntable, an audiocassette player and even a reel-to-reel tape player.
"Ryan said his storage unit's amazing, but he still doesn't want me to see it," Kate smiled. When Rick had been framed for murder, of course he'd let the police look through everything. Beckett had decided to stay out of it, letting Castle have at least some sense of privacy. She remembered that Jameson Rook had ghost-written romance novels, but this was new to her. She handed the first cassette out of four to Alexis, who popped it into the player and switched on the stereo. They heard a low hiss from the tape, followed by Richard Castle's mellow baritone.
"Deep in Desire, by Claire Sainte Victoire.
Copyright 1998, Parti-Colored Publications, all rights reserved.
Chapter One: Sylvia Atkinson couldn't put Manhattan behind her fast enough. In fact she already had a speeding ticket tucked into the sun visor of her brand-new burgundy 1972 Charger as she headed east on the LIE. She needed to get away from a memory that burned hotter than the 11 a.m. sun beating down on her steering wheel. Her divorce from Bill was final, and she was free, and goddammit, she was going to the beach, because Bill hated sand in his trunks. She was going to eat lobster, because it made him break out in a rash. And she was going to stay up all night doing something other than trying to block out Bill's drunken rants at his typewriter. She popped "Who's Next" into the tape player and cranked it up to full blast, screaming along to 'Won't Get Fooled Again.'"
Together they listened to the entire chapter, Beckett sitting in an easy chair, arms wrapped around a large cushion just for its warmth and weight. Listening to the story – about a recent divorcee who flirts with a Vietnam vet whom she meets when he plays folk music in a local coffee house – was soothing and refreshing to their careworn spirits. They got to hear a different Richard Castle, younger and seemingly more romantic, or at least more innocent. The story was deceptively simple: Sylvia was on the rebound, Cade was on the make. They connected, distrusted the connection, and as the story developed the listener/reader could safely presume they would find it again, on their way to a happy ending in 200 pages or so. Eyes closed, faded into exhaustion, Kate finally fell asleep, pretending her head was on Castle's shoulder. It was the closest thing she'd felt to peace since the phone call.
Her friends and family trailed off to bed one by one. Alexis and Martha shared a room that night for the first time since Alexis had turned four. They both lay awake for a long time, trying not to listen to one another trying not to cry. Teresa Beckett had taken the extra guest room. Kevin took his smoke-stained tux outside on Lanie's advice, to hang it next to her emerald dress. He didn't notice that Kate's dress, which should have been there as well, was missing. He tucked in with Jennie for a few hours' well-deserved sleep. For the last time, Ryan checked his messages. Nothing from Dinkmeyer, nothing from Sheriff Kloskins.
The only note from Esposito: "They're sending for a backhoe. Busted cement found under car. No ultrasound or air flow, but maybe a pocket if he's lucky. It'll be slow going."
Ryan texted back: "Dogs find anything else?"
"Nope. False scent burnt-down old foundation 1/8 mile away. Iron door bolted shut, some rust, undisturbed. Terrain Ultrasound not avail till Mon 9am".
"Fuck. Ok, setting alarm for 5am, call if anything changes or when FBI shows up."
"Think it's 3xk?"
"Yup. Gut Feeling."
Still curled up sleeping in the living room, Kate stretched and turned over, slowly coming into awareness. Rick's voice was well into the story.
"Cade was singing Danny's Song, and looked up from his guitar as Sylvia entered the coffee shop. She had cleaned up well from the afternoon's muddy disaster. She wore a deep-red, clingy wrap dress and heels, and her wild black hair was temporarily confined into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She gave him a quick glance and went to the counter, ordered hot chocolate with a shot of coffee liqueur, then sat at a little round table near the door, ready to escape if things got embarrassing. His song drew her in over time."
Here, Rick's voice sang a capella. He rarely sang around Kate for some reason, but she loved his voice, strong and clear with a surprising hint of country twang. He sounded so tender, so wistful.
...Even though we ain't got money
I'm so in love with you, honey
everything will bring a chain of love
In the morning when I rise
Bring tears of joy to my eyes
tell me everything is gonna be all right...
Kate's eyes started up with tears at the longing in his voice. This was her Rick, who'd hidden a gentle soul behind the mystery-writer-playboy facade. The tape went on.
"Sylvia leaned her chin on her hand, and the press of her arms deepened her cleavage, the liquid silver chain necklace rising slightly, surfing the swell of her breasts. Cade's nimble fingers missed a note. That hadn't happened during a performance in months."
Rick's voice went low and seductive. Kate couldn't help smiling. Rick continued:
"He shot her a half-grin and wound the song down, paused, and looked at his play list. He'd planned to sing something silly – maybe "Smile Away" - which was a favorite because he could include the local regulars in the lyrics. Instead he sang Malvina Reynolds' "Turn Around":
"Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my baby, my own?
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door.
This, of course, made tears come to Sylvia's eyes, because we were all children once. She'd she'd always wanted one of her own, but Bill wanted to wait till he'd published his first book. Ten years later, no book, no baby, because there's no such thing as the right time."
A lump raised in Kate's throat. She vaguely gathered from listening in half-sleep that Cade had a daughter who'd died; but she knew that Rick himself was singing to Alexis. Johanna had sung this song to Katie as a child as well. Kate didn't even know Rick was aware of Malvina Reynolds. There was so much she needed to learn about this man, even after years. She'd been too damn busy running away.
Rick's voice was still reading at low volume on the tape.
"As their eyes met over Sylvia's hot chocolate, Cade was certain of only two things: One, that he was too damaged by life for this brilliant, complicated, delectable woman. Two, that he greatly desired to take her in his arms and kiss that little smear of whipped cream off the tip of her nose."
End of Chapter Four. Please flip the tape to Chapter Five."
Kate sat up and walked over to the tape player, and popped the cassette out. She went to the master bedroom and picked through her fiancee's clothes, discarding the sweatshirt and donning his black Henley and the windbreaker with his gun in its pocket. She double-checked that the safety was on, just to be sure. She opened her suitcase, already packed for the honeymoon, and put on dark jeans, socks, and lightweight hiking shoes. Found his set of spare keys and selected that of his restored Mustang convertible. On her way out of the house, she forced herself to eat a few bites, drank some water, and brought a bottle along with her, on instinct. Maybe she was dehydrated, because her mouth was so damn dry. Maybe she'd find Castle. Maybe he'd need a blanket and a sip of water. A bandaid, a kiss on a sore spot. Maybe he'd been blown to pieces so small a dog couldn't find him. Maybe she was completely delusional.
She opened the garage door, and checked the pockets for the local map. Montauk Highway 27, like every other suburban highway, runs interlinked with any number of frontage roads and side avenues leading off in every direction. Kate usually let Rick drive around here, just enjoying the view as the little hamlets and woods, strip malls, farm fields and beaches and ponds and strange little tourist attractions unfolded around her. So it was mostly a happy, tony, tree-lined blur, a landscape she hadn't really absorbed. Now she unfolded the map, which gave somewhat more context at a glance than her tiny phone screen afforded. She smiled triumphantly, poring over it as the garage door light beamed down at her.
The map was at least fifteen years old, and Castle had taken notes all over it: circles, arrows, exclamation points, question marks, and stick-figure sketches. The map had been turned into a sort of medieval-looking illuminated manuscript, and Kate was reminded how easily Rick had taken to interpreting the murder boards. "Lobster Shack Here." "Cade Meets Sylvia Here." "Rocks where Sylvia falls in." "D & B's Grave." Blue and red colored-pencil arrows showed sleeper wave angles from rogue currents; the range of beams from the local lighthouses; prevailing winds. There was even a timeline at the bottom! "Sylvia born NYC 12/19/1943. Cade born Montauk 4/1/1946. S Married Bill 1962. Cade drafted 8/63, Cambodia 5/64. C wounded 8/66, discharged 10/66, diagnosed combat fatigue 12/66. C marries Dannielle 2/68. Bethany born 9/25/69. C&D divorce 5/70. D & B drown, 9/4/70, C goes into rehab 9/7/70, S divorces Bill 4/16/73, C&S meet 6/2/73." Kate murmured, "This isn't a romance, it's a soap opera, Castle." Date after date, sometimes hour by hour, the characters and situation were outlined, leading up to Sylvia discovering her younger lover ferrying draft dodgers to Canada to appease his own demons. Rick's firm handwriting: "Real love is worth risking everything."
Kate grinned. "Spoiler alert."
She took her heart in her hand, looked at today's crash site on the map, and there it was, a little X. It was so small, written in pencil, a bit smeared with that graphite sheen that made it hard to see in the rather dim light. There was a tiny, simple drawing, too: a saltbox cottage in what was now a nature preserve between the Montauk Highway and Sagaponack Road. Rick had written "Way Station/ Bomb Shelter/ Converted Wine Cellar. Explore as set piece." That had been lined out, replaced with a single "!"
"That's almost too easy," she frowned. She popped the cassette into the player, and cranked it up full blast as she started up the Mustang and pulled it out into the driveway. As the sunrise began barely to lighten the sky behind her, she headed southwest, mightily enjoying her fiance's description of the Cade and Sylvia's shared erotic demolition of a lobster roll as she made for Sagaponack Road.
•
Rick laid his forehead on his arm, exhausted and coughing. He thought back for inspiration from one of his favorite TV shows, cancelled too soon. "If you can't walk, crawl. If you can't crawl, find someone to carry you."
He was so tired. So fucking tired, and crawling indeed, with mites he'd picked up from the bat guano. He gritted his teeth. "If you can't find someone to carry you, just keep hitching your way through the shit till something changes." Not exactly poetic, or even succinct. His head sank to his arm again. The fumes were overwhelming. His eyes started to close.
Up ahead of him, sitting on the floor petting his codfish/piece, Mephistopheles cleared his throat, and Rick raised his head. A bare silhouette of light was glinting off the horns. The demon scritched the lap-codfish behind its gills and suggested, "Hitch your wagon to some shit?"
Rick struggled forward another six inches and stopped to rest again. The demon had receded, like a mirage or remarkably ugly rainbow, the same distance from him as before. Rick said, "Shut up." This time, his outreaching left hand found only the thinnest layer of poo on the floor. Another eight inches, and he was definitely down to a fairly smooth layer of dust. He was almost out, at least enough to find a place to lay his head down for awhile, and that was really something to look forward to. Six inches. Rest. Four inches. Rest. Castle's prone reach was a little over eight feet from up-stretched fingers to toe tip.
Meph chuckled. "You're leaving a nice trail there."
He kept going. It took a long time to get his entire body clear of the guano pile, and of course the demon was right, he'd dragged a trail along with him. He finally let himself stop, sat up as well as he could, and tore the unspeakably filthy handkerchief off his face. He was seized with a desire to throw it as far away as possible, but realized that there could be another bat colony further down the tunnel, and he might need it again. The thought made him even dizzier and sicker than he already felt. He shook it out and folded it into his pocket, with the sad understanding that there was almost no difference between the clean and dirty sides. Sitting up, he could feel something like a cool breeze, and realized that the tunnel, exiting at southeast, might even face the dawn. He lay back down, for just a moment's rest, and closed his eyes.
Meph was there again. "Did you ever wonder why the last thing at the bottom of Pandora's box was hope?" he leered.
"Oh, I'm sure you're gonna tell me," Rick croaked.
"Because it's the greatest evil of all. Makes humans do all kinds of stupid things. Wishful thinking. You should've let Kate Beckett walk away the day that first case ended."
"Why's that?"
"Well, really. If you're so good at getting into a murderer's head, how much further is it to..."
"Shut up."
"You've heard the testimonies. 'I just grabbed the knife. I just pulled the trigger. I was so mad. I didn't realize what I was doing. It just happened. I was in a daze. I was so scared.'"
Rick said, "It's dissociation. It's common. Soldiers in battle..."
"What will you say when you testify in court, Rick? ' I thought he was going to kill me first.' Right."
"It's true."
"Are you kidding? He was toying with you. You had plenty of time to run away. He was your brother, and you both knew it. He'd still be alive if it weren't for you. You goaded him into a fight because you were scared he'd just take you somewhere and torture you. Will you tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Didn't it feel good to beat the living shit out of him? Didn't it feel good to watch the flames spill over his body? Didn't it feel good to hear him scream?"
Rick paused, sick with shame, whispered, "Kind of."
"The truth, Rick. Where there's a light... there's a shadow."
"Yes, but..." He moved his right hand and it knocked against a piece of fallen concrete. He yelped in pain. Flames started to leap out of the walls and he realized that he was probably running a fever now, probably hallucinating. Probably.
