I was out of town and unable to update this for a week. I felt like an addict going through withdrawal. Also I was in the high desert, again, with my husband and daughter, on a road trip. If you knew how much I secretly hate the desert and dearly love big green trees and ocean waves, you'd understand just how much I love that man.

This may have backfired since he's now talking about retiring in Nevada. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! :-D

And here we are, talking about the things we do in search of love.

I See You

Yeah I went with nothing
Nothing but the thought of you
I went wandering
I went drifting through the capitals of tin
Where men can't walk
Or freely talk
And sons turn their fathers in

I went with nothing
But the thought you'd be there, too
Looking for you
I went out there in search of experience
To taste and to touch and to feel as much
As a man can before he repents
I went out searching, looking for one good man
A spirit who would not bend or break
Who could sit at his father's right hand

The Wanderer – U2 with Johnny Cash

FBI Agent Jenna Marks, a petite young woman with a sensible short haircut, didn't get too close. She kept an eye on the three men while she called, again, for backup. It sucks to be the low woman on the totem pole, especially if that totem pole is in Long Island at 2 a.m.

The first man, Mr. John Smith (if that was his real name), the heroic homeless man, tall, craggy, and weather-beaten, sat hunched on a concrete wall at the parking lot threshold. He was shaking. He smelled. His face was nearly covered by a tobacco-stained beard and filthy watch-cap, long white hair straggling down from underneath. He was dressed for combat in army surplus, so it seemed only fitting that he'd beaten the tar out of the second man.

The second man was dressed in a white doctor's smock, and wore a security badge for one "Sidney Perlmutter, NYC Coroner's Office." But the driver's license in his wallet named him one Darrell Wayne Bingham. Smith - who had no ID - had tackled Bingham, knocked him down with one punch, and Marks had handcuffed the suspect. Bingham was conscious, lying on his belly, apparently mumbling to the third man. It seemed almost like a chant, a rosary, the same phrase repeated with slight variations.

The third man was partially encased in a Long Island Coroner's Office body bag that exhibited traumatic zipper failure. He had fallen off the overturned gurney with a sickening crunch. His charred head and shoulders extended out of the rumpled bag. The whole thing looked like an oversized, half-incinerated campfire hot dog. The body bag was marked "John Doe, possible ID Jerald Tyson." But Bingham referred to the body as 'Mike'.

"We're gonna find him, Mike. we're gonna take him down for what he did to us. Piece by piece. Everyone he loves. We're gonna dress them up like a wax museum and throw him a surprise party he'll never forget. First the bride. Then the girl. Then your mom." Bingham giggled a little. "Dead meat. Like a wax museum."

Agent Marks said, "Mr. Smith, why did you help me?"

Smith chuckled. "I dunno, missy. I saw this guy running with a gurney, body bag. I was a medic in 'Nam. Didn't make sense, why'd he be running in the middle of the night? Away from the morgue?"

"It was brave, sir, but unnecessary. I almost had him."

The old man's brown eyes went sharp, then faded again. "Sorry, miss, but those short little legs? You might never ha' caught him. They shouldn't have' posted you here alone."

Agent Marks thought, "Chauvinist butt-hole." She said stiffly, "Sir, I am with the FBI and fully trained to handle emergencies. My partner should be here any moment, along with the local police." Her partner was probably passed out drunk with a stripper somewhere in a Montauk Highway motel. He hadn't answered his phone.

"Well, they ain't here now," he said. "Look, any chance you could get me a cup of coffee while we wait for your buddies?" He pulled a flask of rotgut from the pocket of his camo jacket, drank from it and then retched a little. "I'm havin' a war with my liver and I need reinforcements."

"I'm not a waitress, sir. I'm an agent."

"Water? Maybe a blanket?" He leered. "Tuna sandwich?"

She sighed. "All right." She went to the trunk of her car, opened it, rummaged for a protein bar, turned back to him. "Here you..."

Jackson Hunt / John Smith was gone. Vanished into thin air.

Marks called out, "Sir?" But she couldn't leave her prisoner. Her voice echoed through the parking garage. She heard sirens approaching. Someone must have called the local police. They pulled in a moment later, followed by a marked FBI van.

The false Dr. Perlmutter was still talking. "First the bride. Then the girl. Last, your mom, that bitch. They're all dead meat. Dead. Meat. First the bride. Then the girl. Then your mom. Just like you said, Mike. Make them all pay. Dead meat."

Marks shivered, and had to hide tears of relief. This man was the scariest perp she'd ever encountered.

A slim, sharp, red-haired woman strode over to Marks, offering her hand to shake with a brief smile. "Agent Marks? I'm Agent Jordan Shaw."

The young woman nodded and pointed to her suspect. "Medical ID badge reads as Sidney Perlmutter, Manhattan central coroner's office. Look at his driver's license."

"Darrell Wayne Bingham." Shaw ran a UV flashlight over the card. "Fake. But a good start." Shaw surveyed the killer, and the body. She listened to Bingham's rosary for a moment, and arched an eyebrow at Marks. "Holy crap, what a wingnut."

In the morning's small hours, Jackson Hunt's van pulled to the shadows of the trees alongside the road to his son's summer home. He'd heard the chatter. Knew that Captain Gates and Perlmutter were heading in from Manhattan, that Bingham was waiting for a call from a woman he wouldn't name. Having tracked Bingham down and helped deliver him to the FBI, he was content to let Jordan Shaw take the kidnap investigation – if it was a kidnapping – to its next steps. He was well-acquainted with her reputation and trusted her.

He removed the homeless-grime makeup, the watch-cap/wig combo, and the smelly old camo jacket, then donned a black turtleneck and bullet-proof vest. It did not say "Writer's Dad" on it. Maybe for father's day.

He debated the wisdom of having blocked the media transmissions from the scene, but not too much. The people who might show up fell into four classes: legitimate law enforcement, legitimate well-wishers/family, gawkers/media/vultures, and actual threats. He figured the local law would do a decent job of keeping the unauthorized in check. There was no knowing whether they'd find a lead to Richard's whereabouts anyway – whether he'd been vaporized in the explosion or abducted, transported or hidden, vanished into thin air. But Jackson sifted through the intel, his ears attuned to masked signals and coded discussions. So far, nothing popped except a call from a burner phone: "Meet me south of the crash site. Bring the jeep." He didn't know that Shaw had intercepted the call, and that Gates and Tori accompanied Perlmutter to the location. The local FBI was spread thin with the three kidnapped girls.

He was deeply fearful that his son had not survived the crash. He'd looked at the preserve's info on the site, but of course since the old tunnels were sealed off, they didn't show up on the map (although the old tunnel did show a very faint impression on the satellite image, it was shaded somewhat by trees, which Rick would have pointed out had he been there). Maybe he was tired, getting old, jet-lag from his recent Ukraine mission kicking in. He wasn't one for excuses in a work scenario, but he'd made a lot of excuses in his personal life. And now it was time to step up for his son again, because the threat fanned out to Richard's family, to his friends, and to Kate. Jackson was determined to be there, this time, to make up for the many times he'd failed them.

Kate had taken off in Rick's mustang fifteen minutes before, stealing past the sleeping local cop who was supposedly guarding the house. He considered following her, but instinct told him to stay and guard the house. She was good at taking care of herself, whereas Martha and Alexis were defenseless. It was still mostly dark. Dawn was only a pale hint when, 45 minutes later, lights went on in the downstairs guest rooms at Castle's summer house. Moments after that, Kevin Ryan and Elena Parish dashed out of the house, jumped into Ryan's car, and careened down the driveway and past him, roaring toward the crash site. The scanner caught calls for additional ambulances and backup at the crash site. Lights went on all over the house, and Hunt bit his lip in apprehension. He watched and waited, somehow certain that Bingham and the late, charred 'Michael' (whoever he was) weren't acting alone.

Hunt sat up suddenly, attracted by motion from the police car. The local cop got out of the car, paused to look around, and moved with a too-stealthy air to the front porch, then peered in the window. Smitten by the urge to move, Hunt armed himself and went for the back patio.

He peered in the kitchen window. From this angle, he couldn't see the intruder. Alexis was pouring iced tea out of a pitcher into a reusable go-cup, from which she sipped. He smiled proudly. Sensible girl: it was going to be a warm day, and coffee would just make her jittery. But she'd made a pot of coffee, poured a mug, and headed to the guest room where her grandmother was still likely sleeping off whatever she'd gotten bombed on the night before (and who could blame her?). Hunt moved around to the side of the house.

From the shadows near the pool cabana Hunt saw a panel truck - marked with the local newspaper's logo - pull into the driveway with its headlights dark. Two men got out. Usually newspaper distributors don't carry guns.

Hunt wasn't entirely sure who was in the house: Alexis and Martha, probably Kate's father, maybe Detective Ryan's wife. Did these men intend to take everyone, or simply the women Rick loved most?

Hunt had cased the house a while back while working undercover as a contractor for/with Richard's "Guy-I-know-who-upgrades-alarm-systems". He'd also swept the house for bugs, found only one in the bedroom light fixture, but had been unable at the time to determine where it transmitted to, probably because whoever was listening in at the time knew that Castle was in Manhattan, so wasn't bothering to monitor this channel.

He slipped to the largest guest room window and peered in to see Alexis with her hand on Martha's shoulder. The window was open to the fragrant ocean air.

"Gram," Alexis was shaking the older woman's shoulder. "Gram, they've found something. Wake up." Martha groaned and rolled over. "Gram!"

Hunt couldn't believe that, under the circumstances, they weren't more vigilant. "Open window? Really?" But then, he was dealing with Martha, and she was a tad on the impulsive side, the sort who'd leave her windows open wide during kidnapping season.

His knuckle tapped the window frame softly, and he poked his head in. "Alexis, it's me. Be quiet."

Alexis' startled gaze flew to the window and she hurried over, scowling. "What in hell are you doing here?" she hissed. "Are you part of this?"

Hunt pulled himself into the room, not bothering to address her disrespect. He motioned for quiet and whispered, "Who's in the house with you?"

"Where's my dad?"

"I don't know, but there's a stranger in the living room. He's dressed as a cop. Two others moving in on the side and back."

He climbed in the window, closed it silently, pulled the drape. "Is anyone from NYPD here?"

Alexis' eyes went wide with fear. "No. We got a call from Detective Esposito, something's happening, he didn't say what. Kate disappeared sometime in the night. I think she took Dad's old mustang."

Hunt smiled grimly. "She's a force of nature."

"What should we do?"

Hunt thought a moment. "You held up really well back in Paris. You need to run, but you might need to fight."

She nodded. "You want us to present a small target?"

"Yes, like before. And a lively one. First, wake Martha." Alexis pulled off Martha's sleep mask and placed a hand over her mouth. Alexis said, "Gram. Wake up. Come on." Martha didn't react. Alexis dripped a little iced tea on her grandmother's face. Martha startled awake, her blue eyes darting about. "Grams. Shh. Mr. Hunt's here."

Being older, Martha's eyes took time to adjust in the dark. Hunt said, "We need to get you two out of the house safely. Let's move the bed to block the door."

Hunt locked it without a sound, and then he and Alexis picked up the wood-framed, double bed and carried it over, nudging it against the door frame. He checked out the window, then vaulted out. "You first, Martha. Alexis, give your grandma a boost."

Martha was relatively limber for her age, but it was still an effort for her. She perched on the frame, hesitating, and he swept her into his arms. She swatted at him. "I can do it my–" but he already had her on the ground.

"Goodness," said Martha, blushing. "That was stimulating."

Alexis clambered out, whispering "Someone tried the door."

He nodded, "Stay together. Head for the cabana, and if you encounter anyone, make noise. Don't be afraid to wake the neighbors. Keep moving, and go for the eyes and groin if they get close."

Alexis picked up a lawn gnome hidden in the flowerbed. She'd bought it for her dad as a joke. It was grimacing and holding a little chain saw that glinted with silver paint in the soft light from the open window. "I'm ready."

The two women headed to the cabana, staying low.

Hunt heard a baby crying. He stepped to the next window over, to see a young, blonde woman – Jenny Ryan - walking her little one around the guest room. This window was locked, and he was afraid to startle her. The door burst open as he watched, and the "cop" advanced into the room, pistol first.

"Oh, my God!" she cried, and shrank back against the wall. "What do you want?"

With no advantage going in the window, Hunt broke down the locked back French doors with a crash and hurried into the great room. James Beckett was there, already tied, a piece of duct tape over his mouth, his face a bit banged up, and his opponents – the newspaper delivery men - looking quite the worse for wear. They saw Hunt and made for the front door, pushing James before them. They opened the door, and to Hunt's astonishment, a silenced 44 brought first one down, then the other.

Jim Beckett froze, staring at the source of gunfire on the porch, that had lain in wait for his assailants. He could say nothing because of the tape over his mouth, but his expression spoke plainly: "What the hell?"

Jenny Ryan's screams ripped through the house. "No! Let her go! PLEASE!" The baby was screaming too. The cop emerged from the guest room, moving sideways, the baby tucked unhappily under his left arm, her tiny limbs flailing helplessly, Jenny Ryan with her hands cable-tied behind her back, under his right arm with a gun at her throat. Jenny pleaded "Please, support her neck, she's barely even crawling yet..."

Amateur.

Hunt stepped in behind him, silent, waiting for his move as he took in his dead accomplices. The armed person from the front porch stepped into the living room. She was a tall, slim, silver-haired woman in peach-colored silk charmeuse pajamas and kitten-heel brocade slippers. Her steady gaze swept over Hunt but didn't pause on him as she spoke to the fake cop, "Let them go and I won't kill you."

The cop snickered, "Right, Grannie. Let me go and I won't kill..."

Her bullet punched right through the cop's skull. His grip failed on Sarah Grace, and Hunt, who'd been crouched low behind him, caught her easily. Jenny hip-checked her assailant and ducked away, and the gun flew out of his hand as he fell sideways, twitching, onto the floor.

Aunt Teresa went to her brother and yanked the duct tape off his mouth.

Jim's mouth just hung open, and he squinted at her as if his entire mind was being rearranged.

"You're welcome," she grinned.

Hunt pulled a jackknife, and unbound Jenny's hands, then folded and tossed it to Teresa, who caught it easily and cut through the duct tape around Jim's wrists.

Jim was still staring at his sister in complete astonishment. "Tee?"

She turned to Hunt, who was handing Sarah Grace off to her tearful mommy. "What are you calling yourself lately?"

"Jackson Hunt." He gestured around at the corpses. "For these purposes. And you?"

She nodded. "Good to see you again." Offered her hand and they shook. "Teresa Beckett Powers." She added, "I'm widowed." She put the safety on her gun and tucked it into her kimono pocket.

Hunt said, "You're looking well."

Jim said, "You two know each other? Who is this man?"

"I'm Richard's father." He offered a hand to Jim, who shook hands, then his head.

Teresa frowned slightly. "Small world." She tilted her head. "That's just... Are you sure?"

Hunt shrugged. "Reasonably. What have you been up to for the last thirty-odd years?"

"Oh, public relations," said Teresa breezily. "Jenny, we have things under control here, don't alarm your husband for now, ok?"

Jenny nodded absently, still trying to cope with her own shock. She was sitting on the couch, trying to comfort Sarah Grace, who had never been handled so rudely before. The Princess was seriously offended but unharmed.

"Speaking of 'under control', I need to find Martha and Alexis," said Hunt.

Teresa nodded. "I'll remain here in case anyone else wants to join the festivities." She added, "Jimmy, could you find some sheets, or throws? Cover these boys up." Jim, who'd been watching this exchange in a state of complete shock, nodded.

Hunt charged out the back door, toward the cabana. He knocked, heard a crash, went in. Alexis was armed with the pool skimmer, prodding with the aluminum handle at a fourth man who must have come up from the beach. The lawn gnome was no more. Martha was trying to unlock Alexis' phone and dial 911 in the dark, huddled next to the life jackets and boogie boards.

Hunt hooked the man around the knee and dropped him hard on the cement floor, then held the man down. Alexis switched the light on. The floor was pebbled with rounded green and blue beach glass. It was very pretty, the man's blood running red in the grouting. Hunt flipped him over on his belly and cuffed him, a knee in the middle of his back. The man grunted and cursed.

"Is everything okay now?" Alexis quavered.

"It's safe back at the house. Why don't you head on back, and I'll have a little talk with our friend here."

Martha was still trying to figure out Alexis' phone. The girl reached out to her. "Here, let me do that, Gram."

"I've almost got it, what's the unlock code again?" Martha's hands were shaking, but she was determined not to look rattled.

Hunt said, "Don't call 911 yet. Just go get dressed, eat a little something. The living room's a mess, but everyone who matters is fine. Keep your eyes open on the way back to the house, and raise holy hell if anyone messes with you."

Alexis hefted her pool cleaner. "Got it." He smiled at her determined little face.

Martha and Alexis skirted the two men. Martha paused in the doorway. "It's good to see you have your priorities straight."

He nodded. "About time, huh?"

A slice of sun floated on the ocean, casting her tired face in a golden glow. Something bittersweet lit up in her eyes. She patted her sleep-mussed hair and said, "I must look a fright."

He shook his head. "You're more beautiful than the day we met."

She turned with a smile and left for the house with Alexis. He turned, also with a smile, toward his captive. "Now. Where is Richard Castle, and who's in on this?"

It's a delicate art, getting information from a source without causing actual screaming, but that's why a syringe full of truth serum comes in so handy. Never leave home without it.

After marrying Kate, Rick fell silent, his head still on her chest. She almost wondered if he was asleep, but she felt waves of deep tremors moving through his body. He whispered, "Starting to hurt a little now." Clearly that was an understatement. His face had gone white and clammy under the layer of dirt, and his good hand clenched in a tight fist. Lanie came over to them and crouched down at Kate's shoulder, peering into Rick's face.

"Castle, do you know what Kelly Nieman gave you?"

"Something fruity in a water bottle."

Lanie sighed. "I'm afraid to OD you if we don't know what you have in your system. How you doin'?"

"Not so good," he breathed.

Kate called over to Mohammed Atah, who was giving Betsy a belly rub, preparing to take her back to the van. "If we gave the dogs a possession of the suspect's, could they find her other things in the rubble?"

Mo grinned. "Betsy could find a needle in a needle store."

"Okay then," said Lanie. "How about the dress?"

"That has my scent on it too," Kate said. "Might confuse her."

Atah nodded. "It'll do in a pinch, but..."

Gates called to Officer Ellis. "Any of the perp's personal effects in the jeep?"

Tori Ellis appeared a moment later with a red, curly wig. "I think she was going for Bernadette Peters but it was probably more like Bozo the Clown."

Mo took the wig in hand and let Wilbur and Betsy go to town on it. Betsy knew how to differentiate between a person and their stuff. They'd practiced this. She had the scent: cigarette smoke, rose perfume, and evil. Betsy woofed and did a little bow and a happy dance. Ready. Mo spoke to Beckett. "What are we looking for?"

Beckett shrugged a little, and Rick groaned – she'd bumped his broken nose. "Oh, sorry, Babe!" She thought a moment. "A syringe... a water bottle... a shoulder bag. And a gun."

Rick shivered. "Red pearl handle 38." He added, "No oysters."

Lanie looked at Castle more closely. She grumbled, "I don't have much of a kit with me. Wish the goddamn ambulance would get here." They could hear sirens but they were far off, growing louder, but not fast enough.

Rick said, "You could amputate my hand. Always wanted a robot hand."

Lanie glanced at Kate. "Let's have a look."

Beckett shifted back away from Castle, supporting his shoulders. His head lolled forward a little, and he hunched in pain. "Lanie's going to look at your hand. Rick? Can you sit up straight?"

"Castle, you're gonna be okay." Lanie looked under the blanket at his right hand. It was wrapped in spirals of black gaffer's tape but clearly swollen, the fingers a deep purple. Lanie scowled in the general direction of Kelly Nieman's ambulance. "Lady, when I get my hands on you..."

"Sorry," Rick mumbled. He didn't want to open his eyes. He was leaning on Mephistopheles, and Mephistopheles' snake-head-tail was slowly chewing away at Rick's hand with jaws of fire. "Just eat it, I don't want it any more," he mumbled. "Give the devil his due."

Meph's voice was sweet, familiar. "Hang on, babe, the ambulance is coming." The hounds of hell bayed, and Meph added more loudly, "Hey. Did you find the bottle?"

Rick was too tired to respond. Meph felt surprisingly soft, wrapping him in her huge hands that felt like blankety bat-wings.

Petros walked up to Meph and said, "Betsy found the whole bag. All kinds of meds in here. Look like stolen prescriptions."

The ambulance drove up. The paramedics had trouble getting the stretcher down the steep, crumbling stairs. It would be worse getting it back up.

Lanie looked through the bag. "This woman could've opened her own pharmacy." She sniffed the water bottle, then stuck a finger in and tasted it. She grimaced. "Quite the cocktail. I'm guessing morphine, cocaine, and cherry flavored syrup." Betsy would have confirmed that if anyone had known how to ask the question so she could answer it.

"My God," Beckett murmured. "The Shirley Temple from hell."

"Fun while it lasted," Castle gasped.

Betsy came up, close and quiet, and leaned against Pillow Case Kate. She sniffed the lovely woman delicately. Pillow Case Kate was wrapped nicely around Pillow Case Rick, who radiated pain. Betsy nudged Rick, then laid a heavy paw on his leg. "You're sick, Big Rick. Lie down. Good boy."

He tried to politely shake her paw, but she wouldn't let him: faked him out with her paw, nudging him again. But he wouldn't lie down, just leaned harder against his love-and-worry-scented Kate. Betsy could smell infection beginning, particularly under the tape on his hand, and dehydration, the toxin damage in his liver now inflamed by a delay in medication he should have taken the night before. She could smell the love and fear and grief they shared. She moaned gently and, unable to help herself, shoved her nose between Kate's legs. Kate looked down at her mournfully. "Silly girl."

Betsy knew Kate couldn't pet her because she was already cuddling Rick, and she'd been trained not to come between snuggling humans. But she rubbed her forehead against Kate's belly and woofed softly. That's how dogs congratulate one another when they're carrying puppies. A tiny, tiny bundle of healthy cells had implanted and put down microscopic blood-vessel-roots in Kate's uterus. It was already sending out placental hormones, preparing Kate's body to grow a little one. Betsy, who had officially adopted these lovely people as her own, was one proud auntie. She thought, "It's a boy."

Mo said, "Sorry, she can be sort of bossy. Come on, girl."

Castle was shivering. He put his left hand on Betsy's wrinkled forehead, rubbing her with his thumb, the way he had with Royal. He tried to smile. "I like strong women."

Beckett looked over at Ryan. "Can you have our family meet us at the hospital?"

Ryan nodded. "I'll get right on it. Just called Jenny and Alexis and left messages that he's alive. Felt like a shame not to tell them in person but nobody's picking up."

Kate was too absorbed in Castle for that to sink in. The paramedics finally got Castle onto the gurney, and with the two of them, plus Esposito, and Ryan at the corners, they carried him up the embankment, wheeled him to the ambulance, then lifted him in. Kate rode with him in the back, along with Perlmutter, reluctantly, on his own stretcher. She tried to stay out of the way of the paramedic, a big, possibly Samoan heritage man, named Fred Momoa. He spoke to Castle: "We're gonna keep you awake and talking, ok?"

Castle said, "Want Kate."

Perlmutter was babbling a little. "You know ambulances are extremely unsafe. Sometimes they explode without warning."

Momoa was in fact placing an oxygen cannula in Rick's nose (which, it may have been mentioned a few times, had been broken by the airbag). He gritted his teeth in pain. The paramedic cleaned his arm off and gave him a local, then set about cutting off his jacket, shirt, and finally the rest of the gaff-tape sling, where Kelly had left the sticky side directly in contact with Rick's skin. The local hadn't quite taken effect, and Castle swore, nearly sick with agony. Kate held his left hand, stroking his hair, trying to stay out of the way. His body was covered with bruises, the left arm and side shredded and caked with dry blood and bat shit from pulling himself down the tunnel. Kate reached for the container of wipes and Momoa smiled thanks for her help, even though technically she wasn't supposed to do anything other than hold Castle's hand.

Perlmutter said to Kate, "I want someone to check on Arlene."

Kate could barely contain her impatience. "Dr. Perlmutter, we have a real person here."

"Define real," Perlmutter snarled. Then he took a breath. "Look, I'm sorry, but if it weren't for my better half, I wouldn't even be here, and maybe neither would you."

Kate narrowed her eyes, incredulous. "You really think..."

"Did you have any dolls as a child, Detective? Or may I call you Kate now that I've saved your life?"

"Well, uh. Sure, Kate's fine. Most people call me Beckett though..."

Perlmutter continued. "Kate. Have you ever have phone sex?" Her mouth opened and closed.

"Ever get intimate with an object, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral, that was not considered strictly human?" She just kept her mouth closed, debating whether to punch him.

Castle turned to Perlmutter, mildly amused and trying to distract himself from the pain. "I sing duets with my steering whale. Wheel. Nobody else can hear us."

Perlmutter persisted, flogging a dead horse. "Ever told all your troubles to a mirror? Cuddled a pillow? Yelled at ATM that wouldn't give you your money? Tried to joke with an anonymous voice on the phone? Been startled by a mannequin that at first you thought was human? Been reluctant to tear up the photo of a former lover, even though you wish them no harm?"

Castle mumbled, "She's scared of my lion poster."

Beckett smacked him gently. "Castle talks to his computer." But she thought of her mom's photo, and her headstone. They'd had talks.

Castle said, "I have a lot of imaginary friends." He looked at Momoa. "You might be one of them, because you're sticking an arm in my needle and I can't feel a think."

Momoa blushed and grinned shyly. He had hooked Rick's left elbow up to a hydration bag. "I'm a fan." He added, "You're pretty dehydrated, this should help you feel better pretty soon."

Perlmutter said, "You're on Tweeter, Mr. Castle. I'm one of your three-plus million followers, although it's only to see what inane thing you'll think of next. Do you know who I am? Do you think I'm a 12-year-old girl from Scotland or a Russian spam-bot or a kid named Bester42 who writes mystery novels and wants to be just like you?"

"You're Bester42?" Castle was shocked.

Momoa grinned at Castle. "I'm Fangrrl78."

Castle's sleepy eyes went wide. "Really?"

Beckett said, "You write the fanfic where Nikki's sidekick is a honey badger?"

Fangrrl78, also known as "Fred Momoa," grinned. "Yeah. I even won a crack fic contest."

Castle said, "That's a good one, though I thought the thing with the Ferris wheel was a bit far-fetched."

Beckett stroked Castle's hair and smiled at Fangrrl78. "I thought it was cute."

Castle murmured, "That's gotta be a first."

Perlmutter nattered on. "No. It doesn't matter who I am. Who any of us are. My point is, we're all imaginary to the people we haven't met. And where does your imagination of Beckett end, and the reality of Nikki Heat begin? Did Beckett just happen to fit your half-baked notion of a muse? Would you have written books about her if she'd been 4'11, or built like the Creamy Dream Marshmallow Girl, or been a sanitation worker?" Perlmutter drawled. "No. I'm sure it was her soulful green eyes."

"So," Castle said dreamily. "It doesn't matter whether Arlene is all in your head or not."

"Which makes my relationship with her a good deal more pure than the one you have with one another, if I might say so myself. I'll never hurt her feelings, she'll never move away or find another lover, I'll never put her on a slab because I killed her in a fit of jealous rage..."

Beckett, for some reason, was starting to feel really queasy. (For some expectant mothers, it happens that fast. Ask around, you'll hear some amazing stories). She said, "That's never gonna happen."

"Do you really love one another? Or just possess one another? Of course that's none of my business, but I'm never gonna be out of a job as long as 'true love' turns into obsession and rage. I own Arlene, but she'll never own me. And she'll never betray me."

Beckett was feeling downright green. She grimaced, and Perlmutter took her expression for disgust at him. He continued, "I deal enough with death and loss in my life. I'm middle-aged, have mild halitosis, crooked teeth, overactive apocrine glands, and a receding hairline. My very best day will never be as good as Mr. Castle's worst."

Castle's anesthesia was taking effect again. He giggled. "That's detabable. You're kind of cute, Pearly. Merlputter."

Perlmutter shook his head. "You wouldn't want to date me, so don't patronize me."

Castle said, "It's the grugs."

"The drugs wear off, but the attitude..." Perlmutter looked at Kate, his brown eyes sad. "Men like me don't wind up with women like you. I'll take my chances with Arlene rather than settling for some miserable beta female who can barely get off the couch to find herself another carton of ice cream."

Castle said, "I'd like to meet this Arlene."

Kate said, "Castle, she's a love doll."

Perlmutter scowled. "She's a Living Doll. Registered Trademark."

"Really? Inflatable or the silly kind? Cone. Silly cone."

Perlmutter's eyes went wide, surprised that Castle would have the slightest inkling of the difference. "Japanese made, finished in the US to specification at the New Jersey factory. Silicone over a lightweight titanium alloy armature."

"Spendy."

Perlmutter chuckled. "Arlene was worth every penny."

Castle smiled dreamily, eyes closed, and murmured, "It's still kinda weird," and Kate vowed silently to herself that she was going to kick Boba Fett out of the bathroom, once and for all.

The sun had risen over the sea southeast of them, flooding the pretty room with hopeful light. Alexis pulled the blinds closed. She feared the worst. The bird clock struck Red Wing Blackbird: 6 a.m. Richard Castle had been missing for nineteen hours.

Martha and Jackson were sitting on a bench on the back deck. Alexis heard her grandfather making a call, presumably to a contact in the FBI. "Hey, it's me. Yeah, three perps in the house, DOA. One in the cabana, bring him in for further questioning. I have a rendezvous – ready for the address?" He rattled it off, a boathouse in Montauk. "Yeah, it's a cruiser, he was expecting to meet with the three at the house, drive the Castle women to the boat, kill anyone else in there. No, they're ok, no civvy casualties. Yeah, I know. Some asshole posing as local police – I should go check the trunk of the patrol car, I was in a hurry."

Martha stared. "You just left someone in the trunk?"

Hunt shrugged and motioned for her to be quiet. "Oh, that's... Miss Rodgers." He paused, listening, and gave Martha a sly smile. "Yes, the actress. No, I won't say I know her but we're acquainted." He listened again. "That's hardly professional, but I'll ask." He winked at Martha. "Wants an autograph. Yeah, I want a crime scene cleanup unit in the house, stat. They've dealt with enough. Yeah, you too. Thanks, I owe ya."

Martha looked askance at her sons' father. "I take it you know a guy," she said drily.

He laughed, the crinkle in his eyes making him look middle-aged instead of just old and sad.

"Yeah."

Jenny was sitting in the easy chair, nursing a sleepy Sarah Grace. Jim and Teresa had covered up the corpses so nobody had to look at them while they waited for the cleanup team, then gone out onto the front porch with cups of hot tea. Teresa explained, at least to an extent, her 'public relations' career, which had been cover for a stint with the CIA that lasted through several decades and numerous administrations up to her move to the private sector in 1997. Jenny, Alexis, and Jim had all checked their messages, and only Jenny had gotten any news, from Ryan: "Got called back to crash scene by Espo. Asked for Lanie too. Will let you know more asap." That had been a half-hour ago, but it was four hours in Dog Years, and they all felt every minute of it.

Kate phoned Alexis, who saw her name on the caller ID. Alexis called out, "It's Kate!" Martha and Jackson hurried inside, and Alexis barely noticed that he had a steadying arm around Martha's shoulders.

Kate blurted, "He's alive, he's safe, I'm with him now."

Alexis could hear the siren in the background. She beamed over at her grandmother, who sat on the sofa, her hands encased in Jackson's. Alexis repeated the news, and everyone breathed an immense sigh of gratitude. "I'll put you on speaker. Where is he? Can we talk to him?" She sat next to her grandfather on the sofa, and they all stared at the phone in her trembling hands as if it was a live video remote, willing it to show them what they wanted to see.

Kate's voice was calm, but her happiness read loud and clear over the scratchy signal and wailing siren. "He's in a lot of pain and under sedation, so he's a little loopy."

"I fine," Castle slurred. "Hey, Punkin."

"We're in an ambulance. Your dad's been hurt but..." she glanced at Fred Momoa, who gave her a thumbs up. "He'll be all right. I think he'll need some surgery, but it doesn't look like anything life threatening." The ambulance swung around a corner, and Kate swayed with its motion. She nudged Castle, who was drifting in and out. She wanted to make sure he didn't have a concussion as much as anything. "Castle. I have Alexis on the phone," she reminded him, and switched it to speaker mode. "Alexis, you want to say hi to your dad?"

"Hey, Punkin." He tried to smile, but it looked broken.

"Dad! I'm so glad you're ok."

Tears streamed from his swollen eyes. "Ine fime. I'mfine. Don' do drugs, Punkin."

Alexis said, puzzled, "I won't, Daddy, you know that..."

"I know, I knowIknow. I lu' you, Punkin. Pump. Kin."

Martha's voice came over the speaker. "Richard."

Eyes closed, a lump in his throat, the word barely made it through his lips. "Mommy."

Kate stared at him in alarm and took his good hand. He held on tightly.

"What? Richard?" A new kind of anxiety pierced Martha. "You haven't called me 'Mommy' since... ever."

"I gotta talk-a you. Meph says issalla your fault but Petros says you dinnow."

Many confused glances were exchanged on both sides of the phone. "Richard, Darling, I don't understand."

Beckett put a gentle finger on Castle's lips. It struck her anew that he'd been through emotional hell as well as physical. She said, "Martha, can we talk at the hospital... what is it, East Hampton General?"

Momoa nodded and spoke to the cel phone. "Corner Suffolk and Green."

Kate added, "Meet us there?"

"Of course, we'll be there as soon as possible." Martha was weeping with relief, but dread crept in on her.

Perlmutter said loudly, "I'll be amazed if we make it to the ER alive."

Alexis said, "What was that?"

Kate said, "Just Dr. Perlmutter."

Alexis had forgotten they were on speaker. "Oh, my God, he's not taking care of my dad, is he?"

"No," Kate said. "Dr. Perlmutter was hurt in the line of duty. He saved my life." She smiled at Perlmutter and he gawped at her, then turned beet-red and stared away out the back door window.

"So she actually noticed," he drawled.

Alexis said, "Really? Wow, thank you, Dr. Perlmutter. That was really sweet."

Perlmutter just shook his head, still blushing. "Line of duty, Miss Castle. Sweetness has nothing to do with it."

"Aw, Pearly, you're a swee'guy." Rick mumbled.

Jim drove Jenny, the baby, Martha, and Alexis to the hospital, with Teresa riding shotgun in case 'Michael' had a plan D. Jackson Hunt and Martha followed in his van. Martha found the van fascinating – outside it was a simple, somewhat careworn older vehicle. In back was a state-of-the-art surveillance center crammed with devices she could barely begin to understand.

She sat back in the comfy passenger seat, sipping coffee from a go-cup Alexis had made for her. "So this is where your partner does stakeouts with you?"

Hunt grinned. "I normally work alone, but, yeah. Theoretically."

"Teresa?"

"Just a work associate. Barely acquainted, back in the 80s, when she was stationed overseas. Are you jealous?"

"A little bit." Martha grinned. "Although Richard tells me stakeouts can be dull as dishwater."

Hunt nodded. "True." He punched some buttons as he drove. Martha heard some chatter, some in Chinese and Russian, Spanish and several languages she couldn't identify. They listened in on a police radio call, which if Martha had known, was Sheriff Kloskins: "Yeah, some dirtbag in an Escalade tried to cut our ambulance off. Dunno how many perps were in on this, but she's at the center of something big. If we can get the whole story out of her we might find those girls... Frickin' useless FBI..."

Hunt turned the radio off with a sigh. Martha stared away out of the window, looking for glimpses of the sea between ritzy beach houses. She said in a small voice, "Did you know about Michael?"

"Michael who?" He looked genuinely puzzled.

Martha pressed her fingers over her eyes. "Richard's twin brother."

Hunt's eyes went wide. "Jeezus Christ, Martha, are you kidding me?"

"No." She paused, and swallowed. "He was the body. In the car."

Hunt kept his eyes on the road, blinking tears. "Shit. Are you saying 3XK subbed him for Richard?" He shook his head and growled. "Bastard."

"Not exactly. 3XK was Richard's twin."

"Oh, no." Jacksons face was set, masklike, white. "You think it was a suicide?"

"I don't know," she said miserably. "All I know is he... he was our son. And we both failed him."

"How – did you give him up? How did I not know about this?"

She wasn't sure if he was angry with himself, but he sounded angry with her, and she snapped, "Where in hell were you when they were born? When did you start keeping tabs on us?"

"I- I was out of the country, I had to track you down, Richard was, I dunno, maybe five years old, six. I didn't even know you were pregnant, let alone we had a kid."

"It's not like you didn't have the resources..."

"I was MIA, ok?"

"Really. Where."

"Cambodia." He sighed, a hand passing down his cheek, then impatiently pushing through his thick white hair. She had to smile. In some ways, Hunt was so like her son. So like Richard. He added, "When I got back to the States I looked you up. Remember that ER bill of $7,462.03 that hung over you up till he was in kindergarten?"

She started to cry. "Their collections department sued me and I was making these stupid little payments at 12% interest. And then one day I got a statement with a zero balance, just out of the blue." She smiled at him, sidelong. "That was you?"

"I did what I could. But there weren't two babies listed on the bill. Just you in ICU and Richard in the nursery ward till they put you back together."

"I thought Michael was stillborn. I had them both at a back-alley clinic; I didn't know he'd survived. I never even got to name him. Never saw him."

"Oh, God, Martha," said Hunt, and reached over to clumsily pat her on the shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

For some reason, that set her off. "You're sorry. Where were you on Richard's wedding day? Why are you here now?"

"I was there. I was just... not obvious."

"And obviously not looking in the right direction."

"That's true. I thought it would be no worse than a few paparazzi. I had no idea he was being stalked..."

"Michael had it out for them. We didn't know... who he was. That he was my... He was our son. I'm not even sure Richard knows."

Overwhelmed, Hunt retreated into work mode, concentrating on the logistics. "I can't believe there was no FBI buzz about it."

"They kept it tightly under wraps. Richard said they didn't want copy cats or stalkers moving in on them."

Hunt nodded. "Some serial killers form loose associations, help each other out. Create false alibis, even commit murder by proxy." His throat felt like he'd swallowed ashes, and tears spilled down his cheeks. Retreating into analysis failed him. The wall wasn't working anymore. Something about Martha had always worn it down, every time he'd spoken with her, no matter how briefly. It hurt to be around her, but it felt good, too, like a part of him was coming alive. He shuddered, thinking of the man he'd taken down in the parking lot. Thinking of how one of his sons had grown in to a decent, loving man, and the other had become a monster.

The burned body in the bag had been his own son's. And Alexander Blondin, also known as Don Williams, aka David B. Cooper, aka Horace Willoughby, aka Ignaz Lorkowski, aka Robert Cleary, aka Bill McKechnie, aka Jackson Hunt, could actually feel the pain. He let out a long, ragged breath. "My God."

Martha looked over at him in concern. "You realize none of this was your fault."

He shook his head, speechless. "I should have been there."

They pulled into the hospital parking lot, and the other car unloaded. Alexis ran back to Hunt's van. "You coming?"

Martha shook her head. "Katherine said your father's going into surgery, so I'm sure we have a little time. We'll be in soon, Darling."

Alexis looked doubtful. "Okaay. See you there."

Jackson's hands rested on the steering wheel. Martha took his right. "Let's go in the back for a moment."

He nodded silently, unable to speak. In the dark privacy of his surveillance van, he leaned on her fragile shoulders, and she held him through forty-three years' worth of un-shed tears.

Thanks to Wendy for pointing out we need a POV of Castle's family. More to come on that. :-)