Special thanks to Ron, who beta-read this and quelled my lingering doubts. :-)

Too Soon, Chapter 26

Keys

Who broke the window
Who broke down the door?
Who tore the curtain
And who was it for?
Who heals the wounds
Who heals the scars?
Open the door, open the door.

Won't you come back tomorrow?
Won't you be back tomorrow?
Will you be back tomorrow?
Can I sleep tonight?

Tomorrow - U2

June 19, 3 a.m.

Meredith, who was still "in jail" but no longer cuffed, dozed in the 12th Precinct's holding cell, cramped and miserable. In the next cell over, a man slept, snoring loudly. Meredith sighed, turned over, and thought, "I won't be getting an Oscar but this is the best goddamned performance of my entire frickin' life." The outer door opened, and closed softly. A small man in a NYPD uniform approached her slowly, and she didn't even hear him until he was at the door to her cell, key in hand, his face shadowed in the low light.

"Kelly," he whispered. "Dr. Nieman, wake up. It's Walton. I'm here to get you out."

Meredith sat up and rubbed her eyes sleepily. One false eyelash fell off, and clung to the heel of her hand. She blinked at the man. "It's about feckin' time," she rasped.

"I had to wait for the guy to take his lunch break to put him out. Man, the rumors were flying – Michael arrested, you dead, the other way around..."

"All designed to flush us all out, I'm guessing," she said.

The guy in the next cell stopped snoring and rolled over in his sleep with a snort, now facing them. He smacked his lips a few times and mumbled, "Honeymilk."

"So, what's the password?" said the fake cop.

"Do you have the key?"

Walton waved them and thrust one into the lock. "Drugs'll wear off in a few minutes, we gotta hurry. Password?"

Meredith's voice shook. "Password?" She cleared her throat and chuckled nonchalantly, "Which one?"

"Come on," he hesitated, troubled. He pulled his gun and trained it on her. "What's the password, Doctor? If you are Kelly?"

In the low light, he could see that she was afraid, really afraid. Kelly Nieman wasn't afraid of much of anything.

Walton heard a metallic click behind his ear, and turned his head just enough to see the muzzle of a service pistol trained on his temple.

Detective Javier Esposito said, "Password's 'Hands in the air, scumbucket.'"

The previously-snoring guy in the next cell sat up and chuckled. "Good one, Bro." He looked at their newest suspect, swung off the bench, and stepped out through the unlocked door, cuffs in hand.

Detective Ryan, looking ragged in a shaggy wig and distressed, filthy denim jacket, glanced over at Meredith. "You're free to go, Ma'am."

"Oh, thank God." She was out of the 12th in a flash, accompanied by a plainclothes detective who'd been assigned to protect her. Once in the cruiser, she texted Rick: "I'll be staying in the Presidential Suite at the Manhattan Paradiso. Expect the bill, but you'll still owe me. BIG TIME."

June 21, 8 a.m.

A block from City Bark Cafe, Betsy picked up a scent for Pillow Case Rick. Her tail already actively thrashing, it accelerated to a sort of light-speed blur, and she hauled on her harness.

"Betsy. Heel," Mo admonished. She whined and did the Dance of "Why Can't We Just Go, Okay Dad?" but she stopped, sat at his side, and he patted her. "Good girl." They moved forward in a more orderly fashion.

City Bark Cafe fronted a playground with a dog park. It was a tony, pet-friendly establishment in which Mo had occasionally indulged with Betsy. There were primarily small, apartment-sized dogs and the occasional rescued greyhound, aka "couch potatoes on stilts"; the dogs were expected to be well-mannered and trained to get along with others, or were summarily ejected from the premises. Richard Castle, in a newsboy cap and sunglasses, was waiting for them at the cafe's shade-dappled outdoor seating area, and with him sat an older, white-haired man, also in hat and glasses, with a salt-and-pepper goatee. Mo thought he looked a bit familiar, but couldn't place where. He looked up and waved briefly and went back to typing on a battered laptop.

Betsy only had nose for Rick. She let out a joyful bay and scampered around on the sidewalk, and Mo had to make her heel again. He felt oddly jealous. The only people she made such a happy fuss over were family – him, his wife and daughter, and Betsy's old trainer. Rick arose from the table and shook hands with Mo. Then he bent with care – favoring a sore back, Mo thought – and cradled Betsy's floppy jowls in his large hands. Betsy yammered joyfully, and Castle echoed her in meaningless lovey syllables which graduated into more coherent phrases such as "Aren't you a good girl. Aren't you beautiful? Yes you are. Yu-essss you are." He scratched down along her back, she flumped over onto her back, he found her sweet spot and she wiggled her leg in ecstasy. Mo had to admit, the man had the touch.

He glanced up at Mo with a lopsided grin. "Thanks. I needed a dog fix." They sat down, the waitress arrived, and they ordered breakfast. Second breakfast, in Mo's case, with a cronut for him and a nice chew-biscuit for the Dog of Honor. Castle introduced the other man as Jackson, and they all made small talk a few minutes. When their food came, they finally settled into discussion, with Jackson typing notes. Mo listened carefully to Rick's proposal, and said, when he was through, "Twenty thousand dollars?"

Rick nodded.

"What if something happens to me?"

Rick said, "I'll have an agreement drawn up making sure your wife and child get a yearly stipend until your daughter's 21. Fifty thousand ok?"

"That doesn't seem like much, considering what I already make."

"I mean per year."

Mo had been in the middle of a sip of coffee. He coughed a bit out through his nose. "So I'm worth more dead than alive?"

Castle shrugged. "Not at all, but guilt is expensive."

Mo glanced anxiously at Jackson. Jackson raised an eyebrow. "He's good for it."

Betsy usually sat on Mo's feet, but her weight had eased off. He peered under the table. She had done the Betsy Under The Table Stealth Begging Move – slyly placed first one paw, then the other, on Rick's lap, her nose on her forepaws. He was giving her tiny bits of bacon, her tail doing only a slow wag, careful not to give herself away. She looked at him sidelong from Rick's knees, guilty as sin. Mo scowled, then laughed up at Castle. "What, were you two separated at birth?"

Castle said, "Woof," and shot Mo a lopsided grin.

Jackson snorted a little. "So, we'll see you tonight in the Bronx?"

"If you have the signed agreement, yeah."

Jackson said, "I'm sending it off to Rick's lawyer now. He'll look it over and make sure everything's in order."

Rick's attention was on the dog, who had managed to drape herself halfway into his lap. "Con artist," he whispered. She snuffed and wagged her tail.

"Good boy, Rick. You are a very good boy." It wasn't just the bacon.

•

June 21, 10 a.m.

Castle arrived at the hospital and checked in as usual. Dr. Patel met him, her dark eyes serious. He said, "Any change?"

The doctor shook her head. "Nieman woke up screaming about four a.m. And she's been unresponsive ever since. I don't know if the drugs are losing effectiveness, or if it's a result of your movie-making experiment."

"God, really?" Rick said. He felt a sort of panic. What had he done? "Can I see her?"

"This is all an experiment," Patel said. "We are going to make mistakes. I sanctioned your project. It's not your fault." They met up with Minsky, Rick signed in, and they walked through a set of hallways with which Rick was unfamiliar. Behind some locked doors he heard screams, or weeping, or babbling. But mostly silence.

Rick said, "I need her talking."

Patel nodded. "I know, and it's worth your trying. But keep in mind, this could make her worse. She's locked herself down again, and it may take time to find the key – if there is one."

She stopped at a door unfamiliar to Castle and examined the chart. "She's still near catatonic."

"I'll see what I can do."

"But in this case, the orderly stays in the room. I'll be observing on camera."

"Good idea." He clutched his Beckett-style latte and spoke to Minsky. "Ready."

Rose was hiding under the bed. He smiled bitterly to himself, thinking, "Let's check for monsters. Oh, lookie there." The orderly stepped in and locked the door behind them, then held the latte for Rick as the writer lowered himself down onto the floor: harder than you'd think, due to the whole wrist-and-ankle problem. Rick lay his cheek on the cool, mostly-clean linoleum tile, and spoke to the curve of her back.

"How's my muse?" he said. She didn't move. "I brought your latte. Just how you like it."

Nothing.

"Rosie, are you okay?" Just saying that felt strange, as if by going through the motions of caring, he began to evoke actual concern for this fucking monster. She looked small and childlike, but gradually when she raised her head to look at him, her face seemed ancient and stony.

She spoke in a small voice, like a child's. "I want tea."

"You want tea?" Rick looked up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. "I think we can get you some tea."

"Milk and sugar."

"Milk and sugar," he repeated.

He said, "Knock knock." Rapped softly on the bed frame, too.

Pause. "Who's there?"

"Richard Castle. May I come in?"

A little nod. He hitched himself under the bed (thankfully, no bat shit was involved aside from Rosie's own special brand of crazy.) Still on his belly, he cradled his forehead on his left forearm. There wasn't a lot of head room.

Afraid to trust that he wasn't being manipulated, he used his Dad voice. "What happened, Sweetheart?"

"She's dead," Rosie whispered. "You killed her."

"I did," he whispered. "I did it for you. So we can be together."

"Because you love me."

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

She let go of her clutched, bundled blanket, and reached out to touch his cheek. "You should have killed me."

He said, "I'm not like the others. I'll never hurt you. Never." No matter how much I might hate you.

She was silent for what seemed like an eternity, but her fingers clung to a fold on his sleeve, playing with a little creased edge of fabric. It reminded him a bit of Alexis when she was four, cuddled up and sleepy at the end of a long day, twirling a lazy finger in a lock of hair, too tired to talk.

"Rosie," he said. "I'm too old to stay on the floor like this much longer. You want to come out now?"

She nodded. He hitched himself out backwards, and she scrambled out after him. She looked around the room, confused, then stared angrily at the orderly.

"Who's that?"

"I'm Mr. Minsky," said Minsky. He seemed a bit surprised, having seen her every day like clockwork for three weeks.

Rick said, "He's ok, he lives here. He wouldn't dream of hurting you, eh, Minsky?"

Minsky said kindly, "I'm here to keep you safe." He gestured lamely with the latte, hoping he wouldn't need his taser.

Rick pulled himself up and sat on the narrow bed, patting the space next to him. "Rosie. Come here?" It was a friendly invitation, not an order.

Yet he was surprised when, still clutching her blanket, she clambered up and sat across his lap, her knees tucked up to her chest. Her greying red hair hung lank and greasy around her face as she tucked her head under his chin, her cheek against his lapel. He stroked her hair but couldn't bring himself to kiss her head. He felt her rocking slightly, and matched the gentle rhythm. She felt exactly like a sick child needing comfort, and his stomach clenched uneasily, torn between compassion and revulsion. He forced himself to relax, his right fingers over her left hand. His left arm cradled her, and he made his hand cup around her: first the palm, then the fingers, and his thumb hovered a moment before he made the commitment, squeezing her shoulder gently. "You're safe," he whispered. "I promise."

He felt her shuddering sobs, and said not a word to quiet them except, "That's right."

Minsky stared at them, entranced, as the latte went from hot to warm to tepid to cool over the length of at least twenty minutes, maybe more, the serial killer curling into a smaller and smaller ball, keening; the writer supporting her gently but ready to let her go if she resisted. Castle's expressionless face gazed into a dark nowhere, and Minsky couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. Castle was thinking about Betsy, about Alexis, about Kate, about unconditional love, and how incapable he was of feeling it in this instance.

As the sobs gave way to sniffles, Rick pulled a hanky out of his blazer pocket and wiped Rosie's tears, then folded it and placed it very gently below her nose. "Blow, Sweetie," he said. Why did he want to cry? Why was there a lump in his own throat? Fuck. I hate this woman. But I can't hate this little girl.

She blew her nose. Her body spasmed, and she spoke almost inaudibly. "I didn't mean it. I didn't want to."

Rick massaged little circles on her sharp, bony back. She hadn't been eating enough. "I know," he murmured. She felt his voice rumbling in his chest, a warming burr.

"We couldn't stop."

"I don't suppose you could," Rick said, although he wasn't sure now whether she was talking about herself, about her father, about Michael, or about himself.

There was a soft knock at the door. Another orderly entered, pushing a little cart, followed by Dr. Patel. Rosie stiffened and stared at the doorway. "It's all right," said the doctor quietly. "I've brought tea. It's Irish Breakfast."

Rosie remained curled a few more moments, then raised her head and slowly smiled at Dr. Patel. "Milk and sugar?"

Dr. Patel chuckled. "Milk and sugar. I'll have to put them in for you, just say when."
She actually had a pretty tea set, made of melamine, that was more-or-less unbreakable. And a bendy plastic spoon.

Rosie looked at Rick and said, "Would you like some tea, Mr. Castle?"

Rick's wall crumpled. He knew what to say, having spent an untoward amount of time in his young fatherhood sitting at Alexis' little tea table, wearing a tiara, apron, and pink sparkly lipstick, with his knees crammed up to his shoulders. "That would be delightful, Miss O'Shaunessy."

Rosie rolled off his lap and sat up straight, watching Dr. Patel. "You may have some tea, if you would like, Miss..." her forehead wrinkled. "I am so sorry, have we been introduced?"

"You may call me Miss Patel." The doctor, who also had children, gave a proper curtsy. Her saree swished. It was pink, with gold and green embroidered flowers at the hem.

Rosie said, "That's a pretty dress." She looked down at her own pink scrubs and frowned a little, brushing floor-dust off her thigh. "I like purple better, though.

Minsky looked down at the untouched latte in his hand, shrugged, and started drinking it cold.

Dr. Patel said, "I think we can arrange for you to wear purple. Would you like that?"

Rosie nodded. "Not too much milk, just a little. Two sugars, please." She sipped her tea. "Thank you, Miss Patel. This is delicious."

"You are very welcome. How do you take your tea, Mr. Castle?"

"One sugar, no milk, please." The doctor handed his cup to him – noticed his hand shaking a little - and gave him an encouraging smile. He sipped. "Thanks. I mean, Thank you, Miss Patel."

Dr. Patel poured herself a half-cup of tea, filled the rest with milk, and added three teaspoons of sugar. She giggled apologetically. "I like it sweet." She had adorable dimples. "May I sit?" Rick was almost pathetically glad she was there.

Rosie patted the bed beside her. "I'm so sorry, it seems we have no chairs."

Dr. Patel plumped down beside Rose, not crowding her, but not too far either. "This is fine, thank you. Would you like me to arrange a chair for your room?"

Rosie nodded. "That would be very nice, thank you."

They all sipped their tea again, having gotten through the formal niceties of childhood tea party time. Rick said, "Next time I'll bring cucumber sandwiches."

"I like marmalade on brown bread," Rosie said. She paused thoughtfully. "Mr. Castle? What's your favorite game?"

"Scrabble. Or maybe Pictionary. What's yours?"

"Hide and seek."

He nodded. "That makes sense."

She looked down into her cup. "Michael liked to play hide and seek."

"I think we played it once. Did you know we were in preschool together?"

Rosie nodded. "You're the first person he ever tried to kill."

"He must have been really mad at me."

She took another sip. "This tea is delicious, Miss Patel." But her mind was far away, not tasting it. She blinked, and took a sharp breath, then chewed the inside of her cheek, frowning. She turned to Rick, her voice still small and childlike. "If you want to win the game, you have to go back to where it started."

Rick froze. He took another careful sip of tea, waiting for her to continue. She turned to Dr. Patel. "May I have another cup of tea, please?"

"Of course, Sweetheart," said Dr. Patel.

Rosie said "Put your hands over your eyes. Count backwards from 50."

"Usually it's 100."

Rosie spoke in a loud stage whisper, shielding her mouth with her hands from others' prying ears. "No, this time it's 50. 50 days till they kill her, tops. May 9th to July 4th. 9pm."

Dr. Patel turned to hand Rosie her tea. "Just like the last one," she smiled, seemingly unperturbed by the announcement of imminent mayhem.

Rick said, "Do you ladies mind if I go now? All that tea..." he simpered. "I'm just floating!"

Rosie looked at him anxiously. "Don't go."

"I'll be back tomorrow." He kissed the back of her hand. "I promise. Will you still be here?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Dr. Patel said cozily, "And I'll stay here with you. We can have a nice chat..."

The second orderly awaited him on the other side of the door, and saw him out. He caught a brief flash of Dr. Patel's wide eyes, her expression plain as day: "YES!"
•

June 21, 1 pm

Since he didn't have to stay with Dr. Patel for debriefing, Rick got home in time for lunch. He looked into the fridge and sighed, then pulled out the makings for peanut butter-banana sandwiches (he liked his with mustard, which filled Kate with absolute horror). "I keep hoping this thing will magically replenish itself."

Kate felt terrible. "I'm so sorry, I haven't been hungry. I didn't even think to go shopping."

"The housekeeper was supposed to do it," Alexis said absently. She was reading a book. "She called yesterday morning for the shopping list, wants to go back to work but..." she shrugged. "No show."

Rick spun immediately, his entire demeanor changed. "What?"

"She didn't show up."

"She's never done that before," Castle frowned.

Kate felt like she'd swallowed a rock. "Did she call?"

"No, why..."

"Anna's one of the few people with access to our loft key," Castle said.

Kate grabbed her phone and called the precinct. Castle found Anna's address and phone number. Alexis just sighed and put her forehead in her hands. "Is this ever gonna end?"

They sent uniforms.

When they got to her house, Anna Ramirez was found alive but dehydrated, having been tied to a chair in her kitchen, blindfolded, her mouth filled with a ball gag. She was dehydrated and still shaking in terror but otherwise unharmed by an assailant – possibly two - who'd snagged her from behind. There was a typed note on her dining room table:

Look Under Alexis Castle's Box Spring

Captain Gates herself called Kate to let them know, and Kate promised they'd wait for uniforms to arrive before investigating. But before the words were halfway out of her mouth, Rick started up the stairs. Kate stopped him. "NO. I have a detail coming. Castle, this is not your respons-

"This is my- This is our home, Kate. This is my responsibility." He seemed suddenly massive to her, bearlike in his rage. She backed up the steps ahead of him, using her speed and the stairs' height for psychological advantage, then stopped at the landing, refusing to give ground.

"You don't know what you'll find," her voice was almost a whisper, but utterly firm and commanding. "It could be nothing. It could be anything. A bomb. A body part. Evidence you shouldn't touch for any reason." He tried to dodge past her, but he was slower, and her arms were around him, oddly gentle, where a harsher move would have brought only resistance. "Castle. Please. You're not a cop. You're my husband. We've been through enough." He pouted, but she'd effectively turned the tables on him. She wasn't allowed to nose into the investigation of Kelly Nieman. And he wasn't allowed to take unnecessary risks.

Rick paused, breathing hard, then his shoulders slumped. "All right. Have it your way, but I swear..." His hands, as well as they could, balled into fists.

"Sh. I know, Castle, I know."

Martha said, "Do you think they'll be here soon, Katherine?"

"Of course," Kate said. "Our street unis are already on their way up."

Alexis had sat down at the kitchen island, her face white. "Someone was in my room?!"

Rick went over to her and put his arm around her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Pumpkin."

She took his hand and looked up at him, and he was surprised at the sharp anger on her face. "I am so sick of these... fuckers," she whispered.

A flicker of pride crossed his face. "Me too. I think they've messed with the wrong side of the family tree." She nodded, and Kate saw their stubbornness reflected in one another.

Kate's own hand stole unconsciously to her belly, and she thought, "This baby's gonna give me a run for my money." Baby. So tiny, maybe the size of a bean by now. Rick's baby. Our baby. My baby. She suddenly understood, for the first time, the raw, immense protectiveness he felt toward Alexis. How wholly appropriate and consuming it could be. And how frustrated he must feel to have his entire family at the mercy of what seemed like endless, evil tentacles reaching for them. Kate already felt protective of the people she loved, but this was a whole new order of magnitude. She came out of her reverie to Martha's smile, her mother-in-law somehow reading it in her body language.

Martha had picked up sandwich-making duty. "It never gets easier," she said, "But it's so worth it."

June 21, 1:30 pm
The doorbell rang, and Kate checked the security feed Jackson had installed. The cops – familiar unis named Blake and Mordecai - raised their faces to the camera, and Kate opened the door. They told her what they'd learned from Dispatch – that there was something hidden in Alexis Castle's bed. The bomb squad arrived a moment later. They had a dog with them, and they got the all-clear for explosives within five tense minutes (The dog got a bit inquisitive about a certain stick of incense that Rick kept in his office, when Rick explained it wasn't strictly legal but not much more explosive than a sparkler, they let it go).

Blake and Mordecai went into Alexis' room and went right to it, pulling the neatly made bed apart and searching under the box spring. All they found was another note:

Release Kelly Nieman or

chose between who dies!

the Mowrey girl or Alexis.

Yes. We know wehre you live.

Hehehe!

Blake checked the kitchen island for spills or moisture, then set down the slip of paper in her gloved hand. She frowned down at it.

"Think the writer might be dyslexic," she said.

Kate nodded. Rick added, "Yes, and possibly with the sensibilities of a fourteen-year-old boy. 'Hehe'? Really?"

Kate raised an eyebrow. "Maybe this is someone from your circle of friends."

"I barely know anyone with a typewriter..." he scowled. "Aw, shit."

He hurried into the office, hovered over, but did not touch his vintage manual typewriter. "Shit," he repeated. Kate and the other officers followed him in. Rick huffed, passing a hand over his eyes and into his scalp stubble. "You'll want to dust that for prints."

"Are you sure they used yours?"

"Pretty sure. See how the r tends to fade out at the bottom? That key's been slightly tweaked for years."

Mordecai said, "So they let themselves in with Anna's key and typed up the notes here?"

Rick's shoulders slumped. "Just to show they can."

Kate could read his body language as he turned one way, then another. She'd made similar moves herself, casting about miserably to punch something out of anger. "Castle," she said softly. "The Three Crowns hotel has a punching bag in their gym."

He nodded miserably. "Let's get a few things packed while they go over the goddamned crime scene."

In reviewing Jackson's surveillance footage, one thing finally got settled: how 3XK and his accomplices had managed over the years to enter the loft unmarked. He'd entered the building via the roof, then let himself in by keys he'd been stealing from the housekeeper - through three different lock changes, although only in the last instance had they actually accosted her. The men who'd entered the loft while they were all at the press conference were quite nondescript: medium height, medium build, middle-aged, wholly unremarkable.

The four of them set about packing for an overnight. Within an hour, they were ensconced in adjoining suites at a luxury boutique hotel just off-Broadway. Martha tried to make light of it. "I feel so fancy-free!" she shrugged, with a brittle smile. "One never grows tired of playing gypsy."

Alexis rolled her eyes. "Gram, that's not an appropriate term for the Romany people."

"I'm not talking about an enthicity, I'm talking about a lifestyle choice," Martha snapped. They were all on edge, despite the lovely belle epoque furnishings and view of Central Park.

Rick said to the others, "You just get settled..." He made a restless gesture. Kate nodded. "I'll make a pitstop and meet you down there."

"Down where?" said Martha.

"Gym," Rick said, already half out the door.
•

June 21, 3 pm
Kate used the bathroom and unpacked their few things, changed to workout clothes, then grabbed a water bottle (he always forgot) and met him in the little gym on the third floor. The hotel had personal trainers on-call from 6 am to 10 pm. They'd stayed there a few times, and Jake, who was about 5'5" and nearly as wide as he was tall (this being sheer muscle) greeted her with a grin when she stepped in. "Hey, Mrs. Castle!" Rick had changed into the hotel-issued tank and shorts offered by the gym. He was already pounding on a sand bag with Jake steadying it; they paused a moment, Rick for a sweaty kiss and Jake for a handshake. Rick was unable to do much with his right arm aside from elbow jabs, but he still had a wicked left hook despite the slight pull from his scar. Jake winked at him. "You're in at least halfway-decent shape, Rick."

Rick's face was red from exertion; he gratefully swigged some water. "Halfway's better than nothing, at this point," he said.

There was another woman working out there, facelifted and freshly coiffed, walking the elliptical staircase to nowhere, listening to music on her headphones, singing along in a thready little voice "oh Mandy, you came and you gave without takin', but I sent you away..." She gave Kate a slight nod, then fixed her gaze on the silent TV screen. The feed below, "Three kidnapped women still missing..."

Kate smiled to herself. "Make that two. One's already safe." She set herself up on the treadmill and watched the news while she warmed up. "And in a dramatic turn of events, after her bizarre attack yesterday on author Richard Castle, serial killer Kelly Nieman has escaped overnight from a holding cell at NYPD's 12th precinct. She is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone with information as to her whereabouts, and those of her accomplices, is encouraged to come forward." Kate smiled to herself again. There were photos of the actual Kelly Nieman (not Meredith); an excellent 3D forensic reconstruction of 3XK, pics of Grossmann and Bingham (who had a before as well as the after-Perlmutter conversion), and of the man (as yet unidentified) who had tried to spring Meredith from the cell the night before. Supposedly on the loose, but all of them releasing intel in dribs and drabs. The puzzle was starting to fill in. Kate felt a little thrill, and increased the pace of her treadmill to 4 mph with a 3% incline. She found it pretty easy, all things considered.•

June 21, 5:30 pm
When they got back to the hotel room, glowing and a little sore, it was pitched with gloom. Alexis had been watching TV and barely glanced up at them when they came in. Rick and Kate went and took a quick shower (for once!). They didn't talk much, just moving around and with one another in an efficient dance that anyone observing (and in this case, nobody was) would think had been choreographed.

Rick said, "I'm worried about her."

Kate didn't need to ask who he meant. "Me too."

Dry and clean and dressed, they came out and hit the kitchen, which actually had a decently-sized fridge pre-stocked with the essentials. Kate raided it for milk and Rick started a pot of decaf (because desperation, as we have noted previously, is a terrible thing).

"Where's your grandmother?"

"Taking a nap, I think. Maybe having a good cry. Not sure."

Alexis went to the bay window. She could see the old Dakota Apartments' roof line across the park. John Lennon had been murdered there, before she was even born. Her dad had been only a tween, and it broke his heart. She turned to her dad. "There's no place safe."

"We'll all end up dead, one way or another," he said quietly.

Alexis' brow crinkled. "What, no silver lining today?"

The two women stared at him. He shrugged. Then he smiled, and picked up the phone.

"Hi, Room service? I'd like to order an extra-large, double cheese combo pizza. No anchovies. And can you send up some ice cream? What flavors do you have?" He listened a moment. "All of them. No, wait, not the spumoni." He put his hand over the receiver. "Anyone want chocolate syrup?"

"Hot fudge," said Kate. "And walnuts if they have any."

"Hot fudge. Walnuts and peanuts. And we'll also need two cans of whipped cream. Yes, two entire cans. No, I don't mind. Just put it on the room tab. Yes, really, two cans. Can you please send it up while the pizza's cooking? Yeah." He chuckled. "Yes, you've got it: 'Life is uncertain... eat dessert first.' Thanks. See you soon." He hung up.

Alexis pursed her lips. "Food doesn't fix everything, Dad."

He nodded. "Sometimes there are hollow places, and it feels like nothing can fill them."

She'd expected a light-hearted response. Surprised, she bit back a sob. "I'm so scared."

He walked over to her, hesitated, looking like he wanted to cry. He didn't put his arms out, as if he was almost afraid to touch her. "Can I have a hug?"

"Wha- of course you can!" she threw her arms around his ribs. He kissed the top of her head, and whispered, "Do you think I've done ok?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he cleared his throat. "As a dad. I've tried to protect you, but here you are, holed up in a hotel room... again."

"Oh, Daddy. Really?" She looked at him reprovingly. "As Det- As Kate says, 'It's not you, it's the dirt bags." She sighed. "I'm sure that somewhere on this planet, there's a better dad, but I'm not going looking for him when I have you right here."

He held her just a little tighter, then let her go. She added, "You're not just a great dad. You're a good man. So maybe this is what you were meant to do."

"Meant?"

Alexis pulled back, and looked out the window again. "Of all the goofball mystery writers in New York City, they chose to pick on you? Not the smoothest move on their part." She smiled up at him. "You're probably the only person up to the challenge. It's like you were born for this. Like you've been training for something you didn't even know was going to happen."

Castle looked proudly over at Beckett. "Did you hear that?"

Beckett grinned. "Can't argue with that logic."

The doorbell rang. Kate checked the peeper. "Ice cream's here." The cart rolled in with a little tower of six hand-packed silver ice cream buckets. The waitress wore a cute little pillbox hat and red jacket. She posed, spokes-model style. "Six flavors of ice cream. Warmers for hot fudge and caramel, two cans of whipped cream as specified, walnuts, peanuts, almonds..."

"Jimmies!" Kate grinned. "We didn't think to ask for those."

Rick's stomach rumbled, and Alexis patted it. "Go forth and conquer."