A/N: Yeah, so... hmm. Bet a lot of folks thought this story was abandoned. Sorry, but real life just keeps showing up. Good news, though: I've got a lot of bits and pieces for the next three chapters, so you probably won't have to wait near as long for those. But I've given up on making promises. Hope you enjoy it, regardless. Many, many thanks to any of you who have stuck around!
Disclaimer: Not my world, just my words.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
- William Blake - "The Tyger"
Castle is finding it difficult to follow the details of the crime scene. The subtext between Javi and Lanie is so loud he can barely hear what they're saying.
What is up with these two? They broke up a month ago and they're still bickering like this?
He'd bet big money there are still booty calls going on - a lot of them. Nobody who'd made a clean break would act like that.
He sneaks a glance at Beckett, catches her giving Lanie a weird look. Wonders if she's thinking the same thing.
Focus, Castle. Focus. Victim was (possibly) drugged and suffocated, then his fingerprints burned off - burned off?
Well, the murder's a little weird, at least. But whatever's going on with Lanie and Javi seems like it might be even weirder...
OK, so the direct approach isn't going to work. Lanie's not really in a sharing mood when it comes to the situation with Espo. And Beckett's no help at all.
Of course it's none of his business. That's what makes it so damned intriguing - how can they not get that?
On top of all that, Beckett shoots the CIA idea down before he can even get it out of his mouth.
Maybe she knows him a little too well at this point. But sooner or later he's going to be right about that. If he just sticks around long enough.
He chews the inside of his cheek and ruminates on the problem while he flips the piece of paper with the address over and over in his hands. The handwriting is a little spiky but otherwise nondescript. The flip side is blank except for...
Wait a minute. OK, the code looks like it might be truncated, but they might still be able to get an address from it.
"Beckett?"
"What?"
"This is a postal bar code. Our victim wrote this on the back of an envelope."
Her brows furrow, and the vertical lines appear between them. God, he loves that look. "A postal bar code?"
Wow. It's been a long time since he spotted something she doesn't even know about.
"Yeah, those little hash marks you see on mailing labels and envelopes..."
He watches as she makes the call to the local post office, trying not to look too smug. He loves making a break in a case.
"This is Detective Kate Beckett with the NYPD. We have some evidence in a current investigation you may be able to help us with. Can I speak with your supervisor?"
She glances at him as she waits, and there must be a little too much smug still on his face, because she rolls her eyes and smiles a tight little smile.
"Yes, I have a slip of paper here with a postal bar code on it. If I fax it over, can you decode it and give us the address?" She rolls her eyes again, this time not at him. "Yes, it's evidence in a murder investigation, so I do need it done quickly."
She pauses again, then reaches for the note pad on her desk, grabs a pen to jot down the fax number.
She hops off her seat and strides off for the mail room. Castle takes the opportunity to grab her coffee cup and head for the break room.
By the time he's done making their coffees, she's back at her desk, the phone back at her ear.
"Yes, yes, I'll wait." She looks up as he approaches, sees the mugs in his hands. Her smile is that soft, beautiful thing he's been seeing so much of recently. His heart speeds up at the sight, and he's vaguely surprised that his hand doesn't tremble as he holds out her coffee.
He's been trying not to read too much into those smiles, not to let his heart run away with it. It's hard, though, when her fingers brush his as she takes the coffee, and her eyes linger on his a beat (or two) longer than necessary.
He takes his seat next to her desk, wincing a bit as he sits down. Her eyes must have still been on him, because there's a touch of concern there when he looks back up.
"You OK, Castle? Looked like you were in some pain, there."
"Ummm..." Her eyebrows furrow again. "Just a little sore, that's all."
"Sore?"
"Getting back into the gym a little more, recently." Which is an understatement, but he doesn't want her prying into it.
Thankfully, she doesn't, just smiles again. "Yes, I've noticed," she says, and she has.
He has trimmed down a little, but mostly he just looks more... solid. Thicker through the chest and shoulders. She'd swear his legs are bigger, too, especially the thighs. And his arms... well, those have always been... yeah. She bites her lower lip, then catches him looking at her, forces herself to stop. Best not to dwell too much on that thought just now. "Remember to warm up before and stretch after, Castle. Take a magnesium supplement - always helps me with soreness. Potassium, too. Banana smoothies."
"I'll remember that." He's already doing all of that. A lot. The intense, early morning workouts have been leaving him sore, but it's the late night sessions that are the worst, and those aren't weight training.
He hasn't had a lot of visible bruises to explain, so far, as he has been religious about wearing the headgear to keep the bruises off his face. Alexis spotted some bruises on his left forearm a week or two ago, but she seemed to accept his explanation about getting it closed in a car door. Thankfully the weather's more than cold enough to justify long sleeves.
The Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is bad enough, but the Krav Maga is just... brutal. The trainers he's hired are two of the best, and they're both aware of his desire to keep the training under wraps, so initially, both tried to moderate the intensity. He told them in no uncertain terms that he wasn't having any of that.
He isn't about to be unprepared because he was too easy on himself in training. So, he curses himself constantly these days for letting go of his old training regimen for so long - and he's stocked up on naproxen and arnica balm and is just... suffering through it.
"Why have you taken it back up, Castle?"
"Got tired of feeling so old when we had to chase down a suspect, I guess."
She seems about to say something more, probably something snarky, but is interrupted by the phone. "Yes, I'm still here."
He leans back a bit and tries not to stare too much at her, listening instead as he sips his own coffee.
"You have an address for me? Right." She scribbles quickly on her note pad. "Got it. Thank you for your help."
She hangs up, tears the note off the pad. "So, Castle: up for a trip to Queens?"
Mmm. Warm. Warmth under her palm, gentle motion, breathing. She rolls to her side, closer to the warmth, and feels the smile that grows upon her face unbidden. Her eyes drift open and the first sight that greets them is Castle's profile. He looks so peaceful, peaceful and pleased, and her smile widens.
Finally.
Wait. Wait a minute. Finally... what? Just what happened, last night?
Awareness returns in a rush; she jerks up, looks around, realizes that this is neither his bedroom nor hers. What the hell? The mattress beneath them is bare, as are the cinder block walls around them.
Her motions rouse him enough to speak, but no more than a sleepy mumble of "Don't get up yet, stay in bed."
Oh, they are in serious trouble.
Step on her toes?! Obstinate, infuriating woman! "Since when do I...?" Grr... "OK, you know what? Tell me this: why do you always have to be first?" Yeah, what about that? "First out of the elevator; first through the door..."
She looks at him like he's a dense child. "Um, I am a cop. I'm the one with the gun. Being first through the door is my job."
Oh, no, no, no. Not getting away with that one, Beckett. "In the elevator?" And now that he's thinking about it, there's something else. "Look, how about this? Would it kill you to let someone open the door for you once in a while?" That's just been offending his gentleman's sensibilities for, well, ever.
There is something to that; if she's honest with herself, she has to admit that some of those habits developed on the job might not fly so well in... non-tactical situations. But she is so not willing to give him the satisfaction of scoring that point. "You do realize that if somebody opens the door for me, then I will be going through it first anyway, right?"
Oh, so it's gonna be snark, snark, snark, eh? Well, TWO can play at that game, Beckett. "Oh yeah, that's right, I forgot. You have to be the smartest, too. Everything's a competition with you."
"That is so not true." Of course it's true - maybe you should just shut up now, Beckett. And how the hell did he get us onto this topic, anyway? Deflect, deflect, girl... "Are you always like this in the mornings?"
This is kind of getting out of hand. And we've got bigger problems. Maybe we should shut this down? But no, he's not going to let her get in that last shot unanswered. "You know, I'd argue with you but then I'd have to let you win."
OK, I'm just... not doing this anymore. Male ego. Whatever. "OK, fine. Go ahead. You lead."
He pauses, off balance, dander up and suddenly without opposition. Like leaning against a piece of furniture you thought was stationary and having it slip away from you. "Thank you." Hmm, didn't think this through. Ummm... crap. "Where... did you want to go?" Shit.
She smiles, but it's only a little triumphant. There's a lot more grudging fondness in it than vindication. "I think that there is a light switch over there. Or do you want to stay in the dark?"
But the details revealed by the light are almost more dismaying than the details his writer's imagination had been overlaying on the darkness.
Then they see the freezer, and his imagination goes right back into overdrive.
Esposito is looking at her desk now, just as Ryan has been off and on for the past hour.
"Still not back, eh?" Ryan hopes his concern isn't too obvious.
"No. It's been hours." OK, so maybe it doesn't matter. Espo sounds even more worried than Ryan feels. "Every time I call it goes straight to voice mail."
"You think they're really running down a lead?" Ryan knows that it's the only thing that makes sense, but it doesn't really make sense, given that...
"What lead?" Espo scoffs. "There was nothing new on the board when we came back."
Yeah, that.
There's nothing new on the board, no notes next to her phone, nothing. This is not good. Nothing good ever comes of Beckett and Castle going incommunicado in the middle of a case.
Javi interrupts his train of thought. "You think you can hit up dispatch? See if they'll run a trace on the transponder on Beckett's unit. I want to know where they are."
Ryan grabs his phone, dials. "This is Detective Kevin Ryan, badge number 42344. I need you to run a GPS trace on a vehicle transponder." He pauses, tapping nervously on the pad of paper next to his phone. "Vehicle is issued to Detective Kate Beckett, badge number 41319, call sign One-Lincoln-Forty."
Javi grabs his cup, heads for the break room; he'll distract himself with the coffee-making process. It's a zen thing. But before the coffee stops dribbling into the cup, Ryan joins him.
"We got a location on the transponder. Next to a 278 freeway overpass in Brooklyn, near Prospect Park. Doesn't make sense; it's nowhere near anything related to the case. And here's the really bad news: they ran history and it's been sitting there for about four hours."
"Sounds like it's been dumped. Or maybe engine trouble? No, they'd've called."
"Yeah, they'd've called."
"OK, let's get moving."
Gates looks at Ryan like she's about to eviscerate him if he doesn't let go. Then he turns the paper over and shows her the bar code. Espo would almost call that expression a smile - if he thought Gates' facial muscles could form a smile.
Break. Break in the case. Thank God!
A quick call to the nearest post office confirms more things than one: first, the address for the recipient of that envelope, and second, the fact that Beckett had already called requesting a translation of the code about seven hours ago. In a rare stroke of luck, the same supervisor was still on duty, and Beckett clearly made an impression.
Then it's a call to ESU to coordinate a raid on the house.
Which doesn't turn up Beckett or Castle, but does turn up some... interesting weirdness.
A newly-installed hatch down into the basement? Why the hell would anyone do that? Were they keeping hostages? Cuffs or manacles would be a lot less trouble than installing a hatch.
They return to the precinct with a lot more questions than answers.
The house was a foreclosure from about six months ago, but new tenants showed up only a few weeks prior. Shy new tenants, possibly a pair of brothers who drove a Black Ford F-150 and received deliveries in the dead of night. Deliveries that arrived by semi truck. Deliveries that could have been made by Spooner.
Interesting. Frustratingly interesting. Were they storing drugs in the house, using it as a temporary base of operations? Still doesn't explain the hatch in the floor.
The basement door and stairs were in perfectly good shape, and wide enough to transport bigger objects to the basement than would have fit through the hatch.
Whatever they were up to, it wasn't anything good, or legal. Innocent people don't wipe away their prints when they leave a place.
It's almost fourteen hours straight now, and everyone is starting to feel it. Ryan is doing that thing where he pinches the bridge of his nose. Espo just feels fried.
Not so fried that he misses a crucial detail, though. National Bank? There was another house, something from... He scrabbles for the files from Martinez.
"Spooner made a delivery to a Brooklyn house two months ago." He feels like smiling, but doesn't. "A couple of days later the Feds raided the place, but by then whoever was in the house was gone. All they found was a hatch cut into the floor that accessed the basement."
"Sounds familiar."
"Yeah." He feels a budding sense of triumph. "And when they traced the property it was bank owned. By National Bank."
They've hacked the National Bank systems and they're using that to identify places to... "Our guys must be targeting distressed properties to run their operations from."
Now they've got something to work with.
Within 30 minutes, they have a list of potential properties. Within another 20, they've narrowed the list down to less than a dozen "likelies."
They take 3 minutes to give Gates the rundown, and another 5 to assign unies to roll out, working down the list.
Ryan and Espo take the only industrial property, a warehouse down on Fincher.
A tiger!? What the hell?
She's a trained police officer, never short on guts, but this? There's no reasoning with a tiger, no training to fall back on, not even a sidearm to even the odds (a little). People hunt tigers with rifles, not Glocks, and she doesn't even have that.
The fear is almost paralyzing. Her mind races, trying to come up with a plan, but this is a deep, primal terror that she doesn't know how to control.
This is the terror of the primitive, the terror of the prey, a caveman with nothing but a fire to keep the predators at bay in the night.
The knife in her hand seems almost worthless, a joke. She'll be lucky to bloody the thing before it rips her open.
The damned freezer won't move, too much gravel and debris from the rapidly disintegrating wall scattered on the floor, increasing the friction tenfold over the smooth, clean floor they pushed it across a few hours ago. No time to clear a path quickly enough to make a difference; the beast is going to be through that wall in just a few more moments. And then...
Castle speaks up, desperation clear in his voice. "We get in the freezer."
She shakes her head. "It'll latch and we'll suffocate." But that might almost be better than...
"Would you rather be eaten?"
Maybe they can cut away part of the sealing gasket, enough to let in air so they won't... but no, no time. The tiger is going to be through in a matter of seconds, not minutes.
Then she feels it, the change in Castle. It's like he relaxes, just a little, and she recognizes it instinctively for what it is. She sees his knuckles go white as he grips the knife in his right hand, and her heart stutters in her chest before he even speaks.
"Get behind me."
And she does.
Still, she's not too far gone in her fear to feel that surge of bewildered wonder at this glimpse of the real Castle, the one under all the layers of pretense: arrogant playboy, overgrown child, everything.
It's devastating to realize in this instant that this is how he does it; in the end, with all the humor and deflection stripped away, this is how Richard Castle loves. He does it fiercely, does it with his whole heart, nothing held back.
In that moment, the despair is almost crippling. How far she has to go, to earn this. Even if they survive, she'll never measure up. Never.
Castle feels a strange peace settle over him, now that he's made his decision. He'll get the tiger to go for him first. If he can lure it to latch onto his left arm or one of his legs, he might be able to get in a few quick stabs with the blade.
If he can get it in the throat, and then maybe take an eye, it might drive the thing off long enough to bleed out before it can hurt Kate.
He probably won't live to see it, though. All it will take is one swipe of those claws, and his guts will be a steaming pile on the floor. Which the beast will probably do just out of spite, even if he does injure it.
He looks down at the knife again, hopes it's big enough to do mortal damage. Then he looks again at the freezer, and with the clarity of thought that comes with resigning himself to death, it hits him.
"I have a plan."
He quickly drags her around to the end of the freezer, sets the heels of his hands under the edge of the lid near the hinges, and heaves with all his strength, thankful for every tortured moment in the gym in the past 4 months. The bottom of the freezer lifts a few inches off the floor, enough for both of them to wedge their shoes underneath.
Becket quickly pivots, sets her back against the freezer and her fingers under the edge. She lifts with all the strength in her legs and manages to raise it another 10 or 12 inches. She keeps it from dropping back as Castle shifts his grip to the bottom edge, thankfully finding purchase underneath.
With their combined strength, they manage to tip it up and vertical; Castle wastes no time tucking his knife into the back of his belt, then he's hauling Beckett against him, gripping her low on her thighs and boosting her up.
She gets a foot onto his shoulder and swings her legs up and over, lying flat on the top surface for a second before rising to her hands and knees and pulling Castle up after her.
Then he's up, and the tiger is through the wall, circling them on the floor below.
It's only a reprieve.
"This is your plan? Do you know how high tigers can jump?"
Nothing has ever looked so good in all her life as Ryan and Espo peering down through that hatch, lifting chain in hand. She could kiss them both.
Right before she kicks both their asses for leaving her and Castle hanging, of course.
The fact that all three of the perps are now in custody goes a long way toward taking the edge off it all, though.
She can even weather Gates' annoyed glare as she explains her new policy.
She's never going to hear the end of that, of course. Cops, detectives especially, hate giving up any autonomy, and word of why they now have to call in their every move is going to spread like wildfire through the precinct.
But at least they're both still alive.
OK, so Beckett loves to tease him. Of course she does, she's been doing it for years now, ever since she whispered in his ear after their first case, whispered and strode off without a backward glance; still, something about today seems different.
It's not just that the residual adrenaline is still fizzing through his veins, making him feel twitchy and edgy. The look she gives him as she says it, "next time, let's do it without the tiger," and then the deadpan glance over her shoulder (he gets a backward glance this time, oh yes), leave him wondering just how much is tease and how much is challenge.
He takes the stairs, stretching his legs, and enjoys the burst of cheerfully lecherous optimism that is like nothing he's felt in almost a year.