The Long Game: Chapter 11

DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

At Kate Beckett's Apartment Home, 7:25 a.m., Friday March 16, 2012

She leaves small watery footprints on the marble floor as she semi-jogs from the shower tub in the hotel restroom to her cell phone that she left on the nightstand next to her bed. The hotel room is cold this morning, all but demanding the hot shower she has just enjoyed. She heard her phone ringing within seconds of turning the invigorating hot jet stream off. Now, with your typical white hotel towel wrapped around her torso, and her hair dripping wet, Jordan Shaw picks up her phone and hits ANSWER. She's already seen the Caller ID, and is surprised the call didn't come sooner.

As in 'last night' sooner.

"Hey Beckett," she answers. "You literally – and I do mean literally – caught me stepping out of the shower."

"Sorry about that Jordan," Kate tells her. "I can call back if you want."

"No, that's all right," Jordan tells her. "Just know that I am dripping wet, trying to dry off and so this call is on speaker. If that's not wise, then yeah, let me call you back."

"Probably a good idea," Kate tells her, which immediately gets Jordan's curiosity revved up this morning. "I'll wait for your call," Kate adds.

"Give me fifteen," Jordan tells her, as she disconnects the call, dropping her towel away to start drying off. It was a long night last night, transferring Castle from the Hamptons, and Jordan is actually surprised that her internal clock still woke her up at 6:45. She stayed in bed, wrapped in the thin bedding you'd associate with hotels, until finally the cold proved too much. She had stayed in the shower for almost twenty minutes, letting the hot water beat down on her, warming her, massaging her tired muscles.

She walks back to the bathroom as she towels herself off, grabbing a second towel and wrapping her hair, getting it off her shoulders. Minutes later, her body dry, she finds herself standing back at the small desk in the room, the hotel-supplied hair dryer plugged into the dual power jack there, watching the morning news on CNN as she dries her hair. She is only somewhat surprised that the news this morning is still talking about the transfer of a certain high-profile, best-selling author from a small Hampton's town jail cell to an undetermined Federal holding tank.

Jordan checks her watch. It is 7:35 and counting. Her flight back to Chicago isn't until 3pm today. She gave herself enough time, just in case things got interesting. Instead, thankfully, everything was pretty straight-forward last night. She had delivered Richard Castle to the federal building, where they had landed on the roof and immediately taken the elevator down to the garage. After waiting a full thirty minutes – an attempt to throw off any media outlets that may have seen the chopper land – the SUV carrying Richard Castle, Jordan Shaw and two other federal agents rumbled out of the garage.

The SUV had darkened back seat windows and rear windows, with a partition dividing the front seat from the back seat. Completely confined in the back seat, Richard Castle had no idea where he was being taken. Roughly fifteen minutes later they arrived at another garage, where Castle was hustled into a waiting elevator and then rushed up to the 4th floor. There he was processed in, and put into a single cell by himself.

Jordan was stopped at the processing point, split apart from the writer without even an opportunity to say goodbye. Nonplussed, she had already expected something of the sort, deciding to check in with their new prisoner in the morning.

Now, ten minutes later, her hair dry, she sits at the desk with a small compact mirror, applying the morning's make up. Her Bluetooth earpiece in place, she places the call to Kate and then puts the phone down, now focused entirely on the face reflected back in the small mirror in her hand.

"Hey Jordan," Kate greets her.

"Hey yourself, detective," Jordan replies. "Sorry I didn't call last night, but it was a busy night."

"No matter," Kate tells her, "it was a busy morning here on my end."

"Is that so?" Jordan asks, now glancing instinctively at the phone for no reason. "What's up now?"

"I had a visitor this morning. The kind of visitor you normally don't survive."

Jordan puts her mirror down momentarily, standing up and immediately pacing the small hotel room. "Is that so?" she asks.

"I have to tell you, coming face to face with a professional assassin – and I don't mean the sniper, gun-carrying kind – I mean the hand-to-hand, I'm a cat and you are my toy kind – that will wake you up in the morning, let me tell you," Kate half smiles.

"So – no offense, Kate – but how is it that you and I are talking then?" Jordan asks.

"None taken," Beckett responds. "Fortunately, she was here just to deliver a message."

"She?" Jordan asks, now fully intrigued.

"Yep, 'she'. And a pretty badass 'she' at that," Kate admits, as she tells her friend about the very one-sided tussle that briefly ensued – all instigated by Kate, but clearly finished by her opponent.

"You've never seen her before?" Jordan asks.

"Nope. Complete stranger to me, although she seemed to know a bit about me," Kate offers.

"Interesting. Do you think you could describe her enough to a sketch artist?"

"Definitely. I suspect that would be a waste of time, though," Kate adds. "She seemed to be affiliated."

"Ours?"

"God, I hope so," Kate laughs, which draws her friend into a small chuckle as well. "I have to tell you, Jordan, I don't have any illusions about surviving a real encounter with that one."

"I will get one of our sketch artists over to you this morning," Jordan tells her. "I know you have your own artists, but I'd like to get this into our database. Something tells me that you aren't going to find anything in yours."

"You're probably right about that," Kate tells her, then quickly changes topics. "But back to her message."

"Yes, you mentioned she was there to deliver a message . . ." Jordan says, trailing off.

"She gave me a box of fingers," Kate says nonchalantly. She has to smile at the few seconds of silence that follows from Jordan, before Jordan finally speaks.

"I assume you aren't talking about chocolate fingers, or chicken fingers . . ." she says with a chuckle, causing Kate to chuckle as well. She is reminded of how much she really enjoys this woman and her friendship.

"No, unfortunately these are the human variety," Kate tells her.

"Are?" Jordan asks, now sitting back down and applying her makeup again.

"Yes, present tense. As in I have them here with me now."

"That's an interesting gift," Jordan offers.

"No fingerprints," Kate tells her, and once again, Jordan places her makeup kit down on the desk.

"Dunn."

"That's my guess as well," Kate says softly. "There's more, though. When she gave the box to me, and I realized what I was looking at, my first thought was 'hey, this proves Castle didn't do this because someone else is delivering this to me – so they probably did this."

"And even if –" Jordan stops, as she hears the displeasure in Kate's voice. "Stay with me, Beckett," she says, using her last name for emphasis, to focus her friend. "Even if Castle did do it, what benefit is there in sending you a package like that, incriminating himself?"

"That's what I thought as well," Kate tells her, calming herself a bit. "But then she – my visitor – mentioned that this package was sent to her, with instructions to share it with me."

Jordan is quiet at this information, and neither woman says anything for a few seconds. Kate finally breaks the silence.

"I know, right . . . I'm trying to figure this one out. And there was a letter also."

"Really?" Jordan states – not as a question. "Read it to me," she tells the detective. Her tone is more authoritative than she intends, but fortunately Kate is not in a hierarchical mood this morning. Seconds later, the detective is reading the typewritten note delivered to her within that past hour.

Detective,

I don't know how you discovered my plans for you and your friends. Rest assured, I have reconsidered, and I readily admit my error. The agreement that was made to protect your life is now back in effect, permanently, with no conditions attached. I trust that this consideration will be acceptable and that you will have our favorite novelist call off his assassin. With your agreement, detective, our paths should never cross again.

Respectfully

Kate puts the letter down, waiting for Jordan's response. None comes.

"Jordan?"

"Processing," is the only response the Federal profiler gives her.

While Kate may have questions about this development, Jordan Shaw does not. She has the benefit of roughly twenty minutes spent in a helicopter with Richard Castle, and right now she is putting this new information together with her brief conversation with Castle.

He had told her about an unseen, unnamed enemy he was facing. He had told her that this enemy made Scott Dunn look like an amateur, and this enemy now had Kate Beckett in his crosshairs. Scratch that - not only Kate, but her friends, her family as well. Now Kate is – without realizing it – telling her that this enemy of Castle's has sent a letter to her, delivered personally by what appeared to be an assassin.

"Your thoughts, detective?" Jordan finally asks.

"Well, obviously someone has it in for me," Kate tells her. "I can only assume this is the same person who killed my mother, who killed Roy Montgomery. Who had me shot last Spring."

This follows along the same lines of thinking that Shaw has as well.

"That's my first take, also," Jordan tells her. "What else?"

"Castle told me – the day we captured Scott Dunn and Castle left the city – he told me that he had kept a secret from me. That he'd made a deal for my life. I got mad at him about it, and really hadn't put two and two together until this morning. When he said he made a deal for my life, I guess he wasn't talking about a deal with an assassin or a triggerman. He meant he had somehow found out who was pulling the strings."

"Or," Jordan counters, "someone who might be connected to the string-puller, as you call him."

"True," Kate agrees. "Regardless, I now know that he wasn't speaking metaphorically, and he wasn't exaggerating. Not that I thought he was, but when he told me, I was so angry I wasn't thinking straight and –"

"You were angry?" Jordan repeats, questioningly. "Why would you be angry if someone has just saved your life?"

"Because it's my . . ."

Suddenly, Kate stops talking, not completing the thought she was voicing. Somehow, after a little bit of time, just hearing the words begin to come out of her mouth tells her how incredibly stupid her anger had been, how poorly she had reacted. She had gotten upset with Castle for making a deal for her life, as if she were some helpless object. Well, now, as she stares at the ten dismembered fingers, as she recounts her totally ineffectual, one-sided throttling at the hands of an assassin that was toying with her . . . she realizes that 'helpless' is precisely what she has been to this unseen enemy. Castle stepped out – against this caliber of enemy – and made a deal to keep her alive . . . and her first reaction to him had been . . . anger?

Jordan, for her part, is deep in thought herself, now assessing the reaction she has just witnessed – albeit over the phone. She is now remembering why Castle had told her that he couldn't come clean with Beckett about all of this. He had said she would go off, half-cocked, and get them all killed. Her focus would be self-motivated, toward her mission. His chilling comment about her being oblivious to the potential collateral damage has stayed with Jordan. She doesn't want Tom or Jenna becoming collateral damage. And Kate's words, although cut off by her own choice –

Because it's my . . .

The most natural conclusion to that sentence is the word 'life'. And that mindset, that paradigm is exactly what Castle had warned her about.

Jordan also recalls Castle's statement that the media had to see him as guilty. That Kate had to see him as guilty, also. Any thoughts the profiler had of sharing this information with Kate have now disappeared. Still, the question has to be asked: Why would the media, everyone – including Kate – need to see him as guilty? The answer comes to her quickly.

He told her that his enemy needs to see him as quote – a man to be reckoned with - unquote. The media and Kate need to believe him to be guilty because his enemy will be monitoring both. The media will print and broadcast their opinion. And it is likely that his enemy – whoever he or she is – likely has ears at the 12th. So Kate has to seem convinced as well.

So, much as it pains her, and despite what she badly wants to tell the detective, Jordan Shaw decides in this moment to keep the trust that Richard Castle has bestowed upon her. She will allow the detective – her friend – to wonder. She will allow Kate to question Castle's innocence. An assassin has just visited her, and a gruesome gift has been handed to her. So far, this lines up entirely with how Castle has portrayed things.

She will, she decides however, get this message back to Castle, and this morning as quickly as possible. Kate has heard from his enemy, in a very personal way, and the message has been received. She wonders what Castle's next move will be. If he is – indeed – merely playing a part, then he cannot all of the sudden start proclaiming his innocence. He's going to have to play the role a while longer. That means he stays in jail. That means a likely arraignment within the next day or so. Will they release him on bond? And if they do, does he stay or does he bolt?

"I will see Castle this morning," Jordan finally tells Kate. "I have an afternoon flight to Chicago, but will see him before I leave."

"You have to take me with you, Jordan," Kate begins, but her friend cuts her off.

"I can't, Kate. You know this –"

"I have to see him, Jordan, I have to tell him –"

"I can't Kate. I can't. I pulled so many strings yesterday just to be in on the detail that transferred Castle last night, and that's what gets me in to see him today. Otherwise, even I would have no idea where he is being held."

Defeated, knowing that she isn't going to get anywhere with this, Kate finally acquiesces.

"At least tell him everything, Jordan – everything I have told you."

"I will, Kate. I will."

"You don't believe he is guilty, do you Jordan?" Kate asks, almost as an afterthought. Despite the text that her friend had sent her last night, her words this morning belie the previous night's text.

"Whether I do or not isn't important," Jordan says quickly, making up her mind to at least give her friend this much. "What is important is that for some reason, it is important to Castle that we think he is."

"What do you mean?" Kate asks, both confused and curious by the statement, by the apparent leap in logic her friend takes.

"Think about it," Jordan tells her. "If Castle did this, then he is guilty. A normal person isn't going to give up their guilt so easily. It's just self-preservation. But if Castle didn't do this, if he is innocent, then he should be proclaiming that innocence loudly. But he isn't doing that."

"I know, but –"

"Kate, you're missing the point," Jordan interrupts. "Castle isn't proclaiming his innocence . . . but neither is he admitting guilt."

For the first time, Kate sees and recognizes the distinction. And with that distinction, comes hope.

"Castle hasn't screamed his innocence," Jordan re-states, "but he isn't admitting to anything either. Instead, he seems content . . . no, that's the wrong word . . . he seems intent on ensuring that we think he is guilty, or at least wonder about it."

Kate nods her head in agreement.

"But why?" Kate asks aloud, still frustrated. "Why make us wonder? Wouldn't he want us firmly in his corner, instead of wondering like this?"

"Whatever the reason," Jordan tells her, "it probably has something to do with your letter, and your package."

The two women are quiet for a moment, before Jordan begins to sign off the call.

"I need to run," she tells Kate. "Is there anything in particular you want me to say to Castle?"

"You're sure I can't convince you to –"

"I wish I could, Kate. And if I could, I would," Jordan interrupts. She expects no less of the detective than to try again to get in to see her partner. Her ex-partner. Whatever they are these days.

Kate is quiet for another few heartbeats, before finally speaking again.

"Ask him what he needs of me," she finally says. "Tell him I will do anything. Anything."

"I will," Jordan replies, and clicks off, leaving Kate alone with her thoughts once more. She is still stuck on one thing, besides the opened box that sits in one hand and the letter in the other. Her off-the-cuff remark to her visitor this morning and the response it generated.

He's not 'my' Castle . . .

It had provoked a truly emotional response from her visitor, who, up until that point, had been decidedly cordial. Up to that point, her visitor had been as cool and detached as anyone she has ever seen. Without knowing it, her words had touched a chord with the assassin in her home. But unbeknownst to the assassin, the assassin's reaction has opened up questions for Kate.

I question your worthiness to receive this gift.

That's what her visitor had said.

Now, if her visitor were just a runner, simply a messenger – albeit a dangerous one, for certain – if she were simply someone delivering a message to Richard Castle, through Kate, then why would Kate's slip up matter. It seems that Kate's view of Castle, her feelings about him were important to the messenger. Why?

It tells Kate that the messenger had a duality about her. One that Kate has yet to figure out. But she will.

At the Federal Holding Tank somewhere in New York City, 9:40 a.m., Friday March 16, 2012

Jordan sits at the table, lost in her thoughts when the door to the visiting room opens, and a very tired-looking Richard Castle shuffles in. He wears an orange jumpsuit, provided by the Feds, along with the handcuffs and foot restraints that are now a part of his apparel. The fire that was in his eyes remains strong, and her heart goes out to her friend, knowing the brave front he forces himself to hold in place.

He walks slowly to the other side of the table, and sits down opposite his guest. He lifts his hands toward the guard who has accompanied him, but he is disappointed.

"Not a chance, buddy," the guard tells him. "Enjoy your visit. You have ten minutes."

The door slams shut, leaving Castle and Jordan alone. She has no illusions, and has already found the video camera and microphone bug in the room. 'Alone' is definitely a misnomer in this case.

"How are you?" she asks him.

"Peachy," he smiles weakly, "Although the breakfast buffet left a lot to be desired."

She chuckles, once again admiring her friend's spunk and determination – and his motive.

"How's your new home?"

"A bed, a sink and a toilet. All the necessities are taken care of," he continues to smile. Another blanket would have been nice, but he's not going to complain. Not when he knows there are ears everywhere.

"I spoke with the detective this morning," Jordan begins, getting right to it. She doesn't want to use names. She knows whomever is listening will figure it out soon enough but she doesn't want to make anything easy for them at this point.

"Do tell," Castle says, feigning disinterest. Or is he feigning at all . . .

"She had a visitor this morning," Jordan continues. She has had to leave her phone behind, had to leave everything not a part of her clothing in the other room. So she has to do this by memory. Fortunately, she has a good one.

"A contractor visited her." Immediately Jordan sees the reaction, the fear in Richard Castle's eyes. He's a writer. He knows what a contractor is. He knows what this means. His first thought it that all of this has been for naught. That their enemy has decided to move forward, despite all that he has done.

"She is fine," Jordan says softly, and she sees the relief in his eyes.

"But a message was delivered. A box." She sees his eyebrows raise and his fingers wiggle in the shackles.

"The box contained almost a dozen of those" she says, glancing down at his wiggling fingers. Anyone listening might think she is talking about donuts. Castle, however, knows exactly what she refers to.

"And a letter," she adds. "The letter was addressed to 'Detective'. Apologized for breaking the agreement, asked for forgiveness, said that the agreement was back in place."

Castle sits back in his chair, taking his arms and hands off the table, now resting them in his lap, as he stares at the woman in front of him. He takes a long, deep breath.

"And the letter asked her to get a message to you. A request to cancel your contractor."

Seconds pass before Castle nods his head, imperceptibly. Jordan smiles, knowing that her message has been received and understood. What this means for Castle, she is unsure of. But she senses that this is good news, even if he will not show it. She is about to leave, when she suddenly remembers her friend's final request this morning.

"She also has a request of you," Jordan tells him, standing up. He stands with her.

"What would that be?" he asks, and she cannot tell if he is being sarcastic or genuine. No matter, she has one final message to deliver.

"She asks what she can do for you. She said to tell you she will do anything. She stressed that word. Said it twice."

Castle considers this, and for a brief instant, Jordan sees the strength, the façade he has painted fall away, she sees the genuine emotion that he fights to hide. Seconds later, the veil returns, and he nods his head.

"She was quite genuine, Castle," she adds softly. That makes up his mind for him. They are estranged – in more ways than one. There are huge trust issues between them now. But there are also bigger fish in the ocean, monstrous fish that threaten to devour them both. And there is one concern that he has, that has – despite his best efforts – haunted him during these first two days of incarceration.

"Alexis," he simply says, his eyes almost pleading with hers.

"I will tell her, Rick," Jordan tells him. "And I will look in on her as well."

He nods, and almost smiles. "Thank you," is all he says, and then he moves toward the opposite wall, rapping on the door.

"Guard!" he yells out. "I'm ready."

He turns back, smiling at Jordan, and mouths the words again.

Thank you.

Minutes later, he is back in his cell, lying down on his cot, his eyes closed. He wills his mind to his booth at the Old Haunt, and tries to see his friends in the booth with him, tries to hear their laughter rising to the ceiling, tries to taste the drinks served there. He is unsuccessful, and with that failure, for the first time feels the fear, the tightness of the small cell as it begins to squeeze him.

He wipes a rapidly forming bead of perspiration away from his brow, sits up quickly, then stands and walks to the sink in his cell. He splashes cold water across his face, and then returns to his cot, and lies back, ready to try to escape within his mind one more time.

"It doesn't work if you don't completely relax," the voice tells him. He bolts up, and stares at the guard who stands at the cell bars. He does not know the man.

"Who are you?" Castle asks, placing his mask back in place.

"My name is Anakin," the guard smiles affably. Castle tries hard to stifle a laugh, understanding the veiled greeting. "Your visitor had some interesting things to say," the guard says softly, pulling out a small bug from his pocket, which brings another smile to Castle's face.

"That she did," Castle says. "So what's next? Arraignment, I assume?"

"Yes – scheduled for Monday as I understand it. Usually this is a 48-hour thing, but with the weekend and all . . ."

The guard's voice trails off, knowing that he has just told the captive that he is in this spot for at least the weekend.

"Bail?"

"We'll see, but not likely," the guard says, and Castle only nods his head in understanding. "But there are other ways to freedom."

"I was under the impression that that was not an option," Castle argues, softly.

"Other ways, young Jedi," the guard smiles. "Other ways."

Castle has no idea what these 'other ways' might be. Clearly, a break-out is not an option. They had agreed upon that earlier. What his 'guard' may be referencing is lost on the writer – at least for now.

"Your mother and daughter are being watched . . . protected," the guard finally says, as he walks away from the cell.

"Interesting face," Castle says to the retreating figure.

"One of many," he tells his son. "One of many."