Triumphant: EPILOGUE
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
Tuesday Morning – November 4, 2014, 10:47 a.m., at a small cemetery in Brooklyn, New York
Kate Beckett stands over the new gravesite, glancing upward, watching the thunderclouds as they slowly begin to roll in from the northwest. The large mound of dirt and grass, newly poured just last night, hide the resting place of one of the more feared assassins from the European continent. No one will know who she was, or how she died. There is no headstone yet, but when it arrives, it will be simple – unlike the complex woman who now calls this place home.
Kate glances down at the young girl, taking in her long, dark hair and large, expressive eyes. Eyes that were filled with tears this past weekend, but now are glazed and haunted. She bites a quivering lip, realizing that she knows that look on the youngster's face. She knows it very well. She has lived it for more than half of her life.
She glances beyond the eyes to the little girls' small hands. Anna's left hand clenches Kate's right hand tightly while the young girl's right hand is firmly entrenched inside the left hand of Alexis Castle. Behind the three stands Richard Castle, giving a bit of space to the women.
Kate's mind travels back to a few days ago, just this past Saturday afternoon in Boston, where she had limped northward to visit the small girl.
A Few Days ago - Saturday Afternoon – November 1, 2014, 12:33 p.m., at modest home in Boston
Andrea Worthings walks calmly to the front door, where the doorbell has been ringing. She did not hear from Elena Markov last night, and given the news coming out of New York last night and all through the morning, she already has a suspicion of what this means. When she opens the door and sees Detective Kate Beckett standing there alone, her suspicions are confirmed. Her hand immediately rushes to cover the gasp escaping from her lips, and her eyes well with tears.
Kate looks downward, unable to meet the woman's eyes for a brief instant before the last moments of a very complex woman pass in front of her eyes yet again, giving her the strength she needs for this morning.
"May I come in?" she asks. "I suspect you already know why I am here."
"Did she die well?" Andrea asks her, a single tear now falling down her cheek, stunning Kate with the question's simplicity.
"Better than I ever could," Kate acknowledges. "She died thinking of her daughter," she tells her truthfully. "How much do you know?"
"I know everything?" the live-in sitter tells her. "My name is Andrea. Andrea Worthings. I have known Elena for . . . for a long time," she tells Kate.
"Well, Andrea, I don't think she was thinking clearly in the end," Kate begins. "She asked me to come here, to take Anna. I think it was because I was there when she . . . and she was –"
"You could not be more wrong, Detective," Andrea tells her, ushering her to a chair at a small table off the kitchen. "This was not a random or unconsidered request she gave you."
"What do you mean?" Kate asks, now confused. "And why are you not surprised to see me?" Kate asks, only now realizing this for herself.
"Because if she was ever killed, my instructions were to seek you out if you did not come here first," Andrea tells her, dropping yet another shoe of surprise on the detective. Kate winces as she unconsciously moves her injured arm in the sling toward her face.
"You can't be serious," she manages to say.
"You can't imagine that I would find reason to jest on this day, given these circumstances," Andrea replies.
Kate stares down at her feet, sitting and leaning forward in the chair before she raises her eyes to meet Andrea, face to face.
"Why?" she manages to ask.
"Because Elena knew you far better than you know yourself, Detective," Andrea begins. "She knew that if there was one person who would understand what Anna is now feeling, it would be you. And she realized also that if there was one person who could help Anna through this for the rest of her childhood and adolescence, it would be you."
"But-" Kate protests, but is interrupted by the nanny.
"If there was one person who would understand – first hand – the way not to raise Anna given her new circumstances, it would be you. And if there is one person who can help you find closure to you losing your own mother, it is Anna," Andrea continues, and watches Kate's widening eyes.
"Elena decided long ago, Detective . . . a few years ago, in fact, that if anything happened to her, you were her first and only choice to raise her daughter. And under no circumstances can Anna go to her father. Elizabeth Bracken will never raise Elena's girl. Under no circumstances."
Kate is silent, struggling to take this new information in. Andrea senses this, and continues.
"Would you honestly, Detective, just walk out of this house, and leave this girl alone in the world?"
"But why me? Why not you? You are the one who –"
"Detective, hold your tongue for a moment," Andrea tells her. "I am but a nanny, with limited means. Yes, Elena has paid me well. But since Anna was two years old – and she is now five – Elena has been very clear in her instructions for young Anna. I will not insult her memory by even suggesting that I know better how to raise her daughter than she did herself. And these were her very clear wishes."
Tuesday Morning – November 4, 2014, 10:50 a.m., back at the cemetery in Brooklyn, New York
Young Anna tightens her grip on the two hands that hold hers. She hears the rumbling of thunder in the distance and smiles.
"Mommy likes . . . Mommy liked thunder," she says softly aloud, to neither woman in particular.
"So do I, pumpkin," Alexis replies softly, drawing a small smile and glistening eyes from her father, who is just within earshot behind them.
"Are you ready, Anna?" Kate asks, glancing down at the beautiful little girl.
"Did you know my Mommy?" Anna asks, looking up at Kate. It's a question Kate has been expecting, waiting for, for three days now.
"I knew her very well, Anna," Kate tells her. "She saved my life once," she offers the young girl truthfully. It has the desired effect, as Anna offers the first hint of a smile – the first since she received the news that her mother was not coming back home.
"I'm glad she did," Anna tells her. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here, and I would be alone," she tells her with the pure logic of a five year old. Both women tighten their grips on little Anna's hands, stifling tears as the foursome turn away from the gravesite and slowly make their way away, towards the entrance of the cemetery.
Thursday Afternoon – November 6, 2014, 4:42 p.m., at the Downtown Manhattan Heliport on Pier 6
Ex-Senator and soon-to-be-Governor William Bracken, and his wife make their way through the small crowd at the heliport. He has just finished a rousing speech downtown, introducing his new policy platform to fight crime and terrorism in New York, and specifically in New York City. The city has now, in less than fifteen years, seen two horrific terroristic events – one that claimed the lives of thousands, and another than claimed the lives of just under a hundred. Political reasoning aside, the future governor has postulated today that terror is terror, no matter the circumstances. Sometimes fighting terror means giving up certain liberties that Americans hold dear.
One week ago, such a speech, such a stance or platform would have cost him the election. Today? It all but assures a landslide win, as the tall, formidable man had limped away from the podium, a cane supporting him.
"Good luck Governor," a woman shouts – in prediction – at the passing couple as they exit the interior of heliport and walk toward the waiting chopper that will whisk them to a newly-purchased beach home in the Hamptons.
"A good day," Elizabeth quips as she waves politely to the New Yorkers who recognize the couple. They board the chopper, waving at the tall African-American pilot who sits in the cockpit seat.
"All aboard," he smiles. "Next stop, the Hamptons."
They sit down, pulling over the shoulder harnesses to strap themselves in, and seconds later, the helicopter quickly rises high in the sky, banking over the East River north of Staten Island. The chopper banks and heads southeast. Minutes later they are flying over Brooklyn, as the couple hold hands, and stare out of the chopper at the suburbs below. Both set their heads back, closing their eyes, enjoying the quick trip.
Another couple of minutes pass and suddenly they are over water again – heading straight southeast into the Atlantic Ocean.
"What the hell!" Bracken barks aloud as he opens his eyes minutes later feeling the chopper descending quickly, and sees nothing but ocean waters. Waters that are getting closer and closer to them.
Elizabeth snaps her eyes open and screams suddenly as she notices the same scene as her husband – only something else. They no longer have a pilot.
The screaming couple tighten their grips on one another, offering prayers and curses as the chopper hits the ocean waters, and breaks apart on impact, leaving small pieces of debris, but the larger pieces begin to sink.
A little over a mile away, Major Terrance Cooper floats in the water in his life vest, watching his rescue chopper approach less than half a mile away. Within minutes, he is out of the water, pulling himself inside the second chopper from the rope ladder. He glances down at the wreckage as they pass over head, and see two floating bodies atop the water, face down.
"Get us out of here, Walter," Jackson Hunt tells their pilot, shaking hands with Major Cooper, who shivers under a couple of blankets provided by the CIA man.
"We done?" Cooper asks.
"Oh yeah, my friend," Hunt replies. "It is finally over."
A/N: Thanks to everyone for sticking through all three stories of this trilogy. It took a little longer to get out than I anticipated, for that I apologize. Personally, thanks to all of you who have taken the time to send wishes and thoughts to me over the past few months. Your wishes and prayers – and just the fact that you took the time to say anything at all – well, it means far more than you can ever realize. GeekMom, Perspex13, C-Miniscule, kwarner, Manxkid, TorontoSun, lifesamsystery, BigKahuna, kato769, Barry Ween and stockman – all of your personal messages (PM) have been lifesavers to me. To all who have reviewed my stories over the past couple of years, and followed and favorited stories – thank you. Without readers, stories are nothing but blank pages with ink. God bless you all, truly.