Too Soon Chapter 37 – Plaque Buildup
Surveillance Report:
from Irish Central Intelligence to U.S.N.S.A
June 30, 2014, 5 p.m.
Intercepted texts between Richard Castle Beckett and Kate Castle Beckett. Some items have been redacted for brevity and were irrelevant to our investigation.
R: Landed.
K: Finally! OK?
R: Kissing ground. Would rather be kissing you.
K: Ditto.
R: You're kissing ground?
K: ER
R: ?
K: EyeRoll
R: ERU2
K: How's your rock star friend?
R: On tour. Lending us his copter, though.
K: Seriously?
R: Sorry, Ma'am, that's classified. ;-)
K: Doesn't he wear glasses?
R: 8-) he lent them to me.
June 30, 2014, 7 p.m.
R: At Cliffs of Insanity. Too dark to see anything much. Probably a good thing, long drop.
K: Don't turn back on ocean
R: It's 200 feet down
K: Then that goes double!
R: So tired I can't think of witty rejoinder.
K: you get points for 'rejoinder'. Go eat mussels and drink beer.
R: God, I miss you.
K: I miss U2.
R: Let's not start that again. Tomorrow?
K: Tomorrow xo
R: X. O. X again. Right there.
K: Oh!
July1, 2014, 3 a.m., New York City
R: Ping.
K: Can't sleep? Neither can I.
R: I wish I could •••• ••• right now
K: MMM. That would feel so ••••••••••••••••
R: •••••••••••••••• ••••••••••• •••••• ••• you.
K: ••••• •••••••••••• •••• •••••! Yes!
(this continues for about twenty minutes, and is redacted due to content unrelated to case)
R: Night. xo
K: Night. Xo
R: P.S. Accidentally woke Betsy up now she wants to sleep on me.
K: I sent her to keep you in line
R: I lick you very much :-p
July 1, 2014, Doolin, Ireland; 5 a.m.
Javier Esposito to Dr. Helena "Lanie" Parrish:
J: Yochica
H: Really? Now?
J: Nevermind.
July 1, noon, The Burren
It is unknown whether Mr. Castle's team realises they are being observed. Agent Rourke thinks they'd be eejits not to have noticed us. But they seem very absorbed in whatever it is they are seeking. Movements amongst the group seem ill-planned and unfocused, and are apparently at the behest of Mr. Castle.
Their plane from Iceland landed at the strip on Inish Boffin then took off for points unknown. They were met by a chartered helicopter and taken to the Cliffs of Moher shortly before sunset. A hired SUV met them at the cliffs. They spent the night at a B&B near Doolin, and then the next day on Inish Mor visiting the Fort and, at low tide, exploring some caves along the cliff base. They took the ferry from Inish Mor to Galway. Only Esposito and the dog were seasick. A car dealership delivered another SUV to them, which Mr. Castle had apparently paid for by cashier's check. They have driven to numerous spots about the country (which is admittedly only about 50 miles wide). These sites included several abandoned castles, so-called "fairy rings", the Burren dolmen graves, NewGrange heritage monument, and other pre-Christian sites of note.
The subjects seem to be headed, in a meandering way, toward Dublin, but their intention – whether legitimate or not – is unknown. Some tourism may be on the agenda. NYPD Detective Ryan in particular has taken at least 300 selfies and done a significant amount of research in small local historic libraries. Much of this is not yet online, and we have difficulty discerning what he was looking at, or why. Agent Gashkori thinks we should just give them a ring and ask them, but management does not want us to tip our hand.
July 2, 2014, 11 a.m.
Text, Kevin Ryan to Jennifer Ryan:
K: How are my girls? (conversation continues and appears to be about an actual baby. No mention as to the mission other than):
J: Baby was up all night :-( We miss you!
K: I want to believe in Castle but this is pretty far-fetched.
J: Ha! Far-fetched! LOL!
K: What?
J: Duh. You have a dog with you. Fetch. Get it?
K: LOL! Sorry, brain dead. Coffee here is disgusting. Tea's not so bad.
J: They don't have honeymilk ;-)
K: Not like yours they don't.
(Agents are attempting to discern the meaning of code word 'honeymilk')
July 2, 2014, 1 p.m.
Text, Commander ••••••••••••••• (Avoca, Ireland) to Martha Rodgers (New York)
•: We're not dead yet.
M: Keep it that way. If anything happens to him I'll hold you responsible.
•: So will I. What if something happens to me?
M: I'll hold myself responsible. You don't want to see me being responsible, do you?
•: Good lord no.
M: Well, then.
M: Seriously, get them home. Alexis is worried sick.
•: Alexis is worried sick?
M: We both are. We all are. About all of you.
M: Still there?
M: Yoo-hoo! ?
July 2, 2014, 1:12 p.m.
Text, Commander ••••••••••••••• (Avoca, Ireland) to Martha Rodgers (New York)
•: I love you.
M: Well, it's about time.
M: Don't worry, I won't let that go to my head. See you after the show. Break a leg, Darling.
(Note, our Agents had not traveled in theatrical circles and there was some excitement over "Break a Leg" until its meaning had been determined. Apparently Ms. Rodgers is an actress. Agents do not get out much. We are unsure why Commander ••••••••••••••• imparted this intel then did not respond to her additional texts. It may be some kind of code. In espionage, "I love you" rarely means what one would think.)
M: ;-)
M: Still there?
M: Everything ok?
M: I hate when you disappear without warning.
M: •••••••••?
July 2, 2014, 1:20 p.m.
Text Martha Rodgers (New York) to Commander ••••••••••••••• (Avoca, Ireland)
M: For what it's worth, I love you, too.
Commander •••••••••••••••• did not respond to this text.
Field surveillance reports he was accessing an off-limits area of Sugarloaf Mountain, and was not within texting range.
July 3, 2014 – 3 a.m., Ireland
Castle and his team spent the late afternoon at Powerscourt Gardens, touring the waterfall, climbing to its top, attempting to go behind the stream in the apparent belief there might be a hidden room. They also toured the grounds and took tea in the newly rebuilt interior. Aside from Commander ••••••••••••, none of them appears to be in a good mood.
The dog – who is apparently a blue-tick American bloodhound - grew overexcited and barked at a wall. When staff arrived to admonish them, they left. Based on security camera footage, at approximately 2 a.m., they returned; Castle and Commander ••••••• somehow overrode the security gate and returned to the suspected section of wall. Then the cameras shorted out, and the rest of the recording is a shootout scene from a space western. I suspect we have been made.
When we investigated the wall the following morning, we found that the plaque had been polished to a high shine but otherwise undisturbed. Amusingly, it was dedicated to architect Richard Cassels, who designed the grand house in the 1700s. Perhaps this is some kind of perverse vandalism.
July 3, 2014, - 7 a.m., New York
Text from Richard Castle Beckett to Kate Castle Beckett:
R: Found flash drive from 3XK
K: ! WHERE?
R: Behind shiny brass plaque dedicated to Richard Castle, architect Powerscourt House
K: Anything on it?
R: Encrypted. Beating head against wall now.
K: Whose?
R: Mine
K: DO NOT DAMAGE NEW HAIR. Or brain. How'd you find flashdrive?
R: Betsy went NUTS. Must have smelled him. Then I noticed plaque had been removed & replaced. Flash drive tucked into chink in mortar.
K: GOOD GIRL BETSY!
R: She's near retirement, can you believe it?
K: You want to adopt her.
R: God, I love you so much
K: Yet you're sleeping with her
R: Haha. SLEEPING. :-D No, we just cuddle. Mo pretends to be jealous. I actually think he's enjoying the bed space.
K: Srsly, r u you actually sleeping?
R: Not much. You?
K: Like a rock. With a baby rock in it.
R: I miss you.
K: We miss you!
R: We?
K: Not just the Royal We. Xo
Agents feel some concern about the reference to Royal We, but it is unknown whether the Castles have any ties to HRME2 or family.
Tullow Hotel, Executive Suite, July 3, 1 pm
They stayed in a little hotel in a rather miserable, semi-industrial town called Tullow. Rick, who really needed down-time to think, sent the others off sight-seeing at St. Kevin's Tower, a few miles away in the Wicklow mountains. The damn movie had filmed all over Ireland, and they'd covered almost every location. He'd loved them all back then, drawn into the history and romance of evergreen Ireland, but now all he wanted to do was find Tiffany and go home. He sat scowling at his laptop, staring at the icon for 3XK's flash drive.
When he'd pulled it carefully out of the wall chink with his fingertips, Rick had been surprised to find it labeled, "RichardCastleNYC". Too easy? No. Michael had wanted it found, wanted the flash drive itself to reach him specifically, or nobody.
But now, with it plugged into the laptop and the little animated icon winking at him in mockery, he wanted to yank the flash drive out and throw it across the room.
He sipped his tea and skyped Kate.
She was up and showered, wearing her lavender silk robe, her hair wrapped in a towel.
He took a deep breath, as if he could inhale her from three thousand miles away. "You showered without me. Lucky shower."
Her eyes glowed. "It's so good to see your face. Except that you look miserable."
"You up for building some theory?"
"Well, I should put some clothes on first."
"Could we do naked theory building?"
She scowled in mock reproval. "No distractions. Now, what seems to be the problem, Mr. Beckett?"
He hesitated. "You know, I kind of like that."
"You do?"
"It's growing on me. Like moss. I've..."
"Don't say it..."
"Taken a lichen to it."
"Castle! You said it!" but she was laughing. "Damn it." She took a sip of her coffee, then scowled down at it. "There's something wrong with this coffee."
"What?"
"Well, two things. A) it's decaf and B) it wasn't made by you."
"The horror. But at least you can drink it now."
"Morning sickness has subsided a little." She smiled, and then her expression turned serious.
"Theory."
"Yeah," he sighed. "3XK left this for me but it's passworded. No, I don't know if 'passworded' is even a word. I'll look it up later."
"How many characters?"
"Seven."
"Ouch."
"I tried the obvious. doesn't work."
"He chose something you'd know. Everyone kno U."
"Yeah, I know." He sighed and mussed his hair. Kate's heart swelled up, popped, and remade itself again, one size larger. "Can nothing ever be easy?"
She tilted her head. "Seriously?"
"What."
"Castle, you are... pouting. You own a Ferrari, you've written a bazillion books, you've been around the world and done most of the things on your bucket list, including..." She bit her lip then grinned salaciously.
"Including you."
"You've had to work hard, sure, but you are SO spoiled. You get what you want all the time. You have a memory like a steel trap. People like you... for no explicable reason. It's okay if this is a little hard. Michael may have been a psychopath and an asshole, but he understood you on some level. A part of you is enjoying this puzzle."
Castle scowled. "Are you kidding me? He did this to torture me."
Beckett got serious now. "Castle. He's tortured plenty of people, with no regrets. But he toyed with you. Played with you. He was..." she shook her head. "For lack of a better word, I think he was lonely. He wanted you to pick up the ball and run with it."
Rick's tea now made a knot in his stomach, and he cupped his forehead in his hand. "I hate this."
"I hate it too. But I love you. And I believe in you."
He looked back up at the screen. Her eyes were kind. "Now, normally I'd tell you to get to work, but maybe what you really need is playtime." She shook her hair down out of the towel and batted her eyelashes at him.
"Playtime? Kate, I need to focus..."
She slid her robe down off one shoulder. "You focus better when you're relaxed."
"I, uh..." His eyes went wide and bright blue, watching her lavender robe fall away. Her perky little breasts were definitely rounder than before, the nipples semi-erect and blushing. "Wow. Pregnancy suits you."
Kate glanced down, shimmied her torso, and grinned. "I know, right? I think they've grown a bit. Almost worth the soreness." She skimmed over her breasts with her fingertips, and her nipples went hard and precious as diamonds. The look she shot him was anything but innocent. "Don't fight it, Castle."
"I hear that 'surrender means going over to the winning side'."
Kate nodded. "Let me see your flag, Soldier."
•
Tullow Hotel, Executive Suite, 1:30 p.m.
Rick was lying on the bed, dazed by the irresistible combination of skype-sex orgasm and jet lag. Hovering at the edge of sleep, he accessed areas of mind and memory that weren't usually available in the workaday world. It was somewhere between meditation and lucid dreaming. Sometimes everything was cinematic and clear, sometimes phrases and distinct voices flowed in and out of his thoughts, saying things he never would have expected.
He stood at the Pearly Gates next to Michael, going over Michael's murder board as it hovered like a soiled and bleeding dove. Michael resembled himself as Declan Connor, young and bright-eyed, his face unchanged by plastic surgery, with a beard and tangled, short dreads. He'd sprouted something like the stumps of wings, not even big enough to lift a chicken, featherless and naked. He glanced at Rick, barely acknowledging him, absorbed in watching the screens. Murder and mayhem, violence and abuse, screaming and pleading.
Petros was there too. He greeted Rick with a smile and handshake, warmth beaming from his ancient dark eyes. "Nice job on the girls," he said. "Just one to go."
Rick said, "I don't even know if she's still alive."
Michael said, "Oh, she's alive all right. You're supposed to kill her."
"Now why would I do that?"
"Kill or be killed, right?"
"I already did that with you. I'm over it." Rick looked over Michael's shoulder at the board. "Helps if you make a timeline," he said.
"Go to town," Michael murmured. He was watching himself murder his mother, over and over, dragging her limp body across the room, putting the noose around her neck, using the top of the door as a pulley to haul her up, tying the rope to the door. Wearing gloves, because like Rick, Michael was a thorough researcher from way back.
Rick glanced at the screen. Images flashed in his mind of 3XK's adoptive – accidental – hapless and hopeless mom. The first time he saw her, she'd been very blurry, squatting, on a bed next to his own mother. What was her name? Deirdre McGowran. Naked, skinny but for her belly, blonde hair braided back out of the way, arms crossed at the elbow, two hands holding hers. From his Bradley training with Meredith, he recognized it as an optimal pushing position. So Betty, the obstetric-nurse-practitioner-moonlighting-as-back-alley-abortionist, actually knew what she was doing.
A woman's voice. Betty. "Ok, Dierdre. Breathe. Now, one more push. You can do it."
Deirdre let out a long, gritted cry of effort, then lay back. Her baby was so still, so quiet, Betty laboring over him.
Deirdre said, "He's blue." Her voice was flat, exhausted.
Betty said, "I want you to just put your hand on his little chest and see if we can get some blood circulating, okay?"
Deirdre said, "He's dead. The baby's dead."
Betty was suctioning the baby's nose and mouth. She gave him a rescue breath, but he didn't respond. She instructed Deirdre: "Keep at it. Sometimes babies pull through this."
Martha, her voice younger and higher, but hoarse from exhaustion, said, "Betty, I feel dizzy." The baby Richard felt her hold on him weaken. Betty said, "Oh, shit. Holy shit, Martha, hang on." Betty took Richard from Martha's arms and set him aside in a bassinet. He started to cry.
Betty leaned over him, her round, kind face in full focus. "Shh, BigBoy. Momma's busy, just a few minutes now." She stuck a brand-new pacifier in his offended mouth, and he sucked on it miserably, listening to the sound of Betty talking to his mother, the words only noises he'd never processed or understood, just stored away like a cuneiform tablet, waiting for the Rosetta Stone. "Okay, Martha, honey, you're hemorrhaging right around your second baby. So just push one more time, okay sweetie? And I'll get you all to a hospital. Come on now, Martha. Martha! Wake up."
Martha mumbled something, and Betty said "NO YOU DON'T! One push. You can do it."
Through it all, Deirdre sobbed softly. Then Michael was born, screaming. (He'd died screaming, too. Whose fault was that? Rick wasn't sure.)
Betty said, "Deirdre! I need you to help me. Look at me. I have to get Martha to the hospital."
"So I'm just fucked then."
"Honey, your baby's gone, but this one needs you. I don't even have time to swaddle him. Now get up and help me."
"I just gave birth!"
"Yes, and Chinese women give birth in the fields, and you're feelin' no pain. You want Martha and her babies to die, too?"
Michael continued screaming. Baby Richard watched as his brother's writhing body descended like a falling gargoyle from the water-stained ceiling, red and greasy-white, hefted by Betty's freckled, sturdy hands. Then the two brothers were reunited for a moment, snuggled close, familiar, and blissfully quiet. Inside their mother, they had slipped around next to one another, vied for space and nutrients, but enjoyed each other's company in an abstract way as they fit their bodies into the confines of her womb, awaiting birth. Of course they had been together, since the first spark of life. Of course they would always be together, they should be, they were practically one flesh. Their breathing matched as had their heartbeats in utero, and they were almost instantly asleep.
So peaceful. Rick had to fight sleep then, fight to stay with the memory.
And then baby Richard, swaddled and pacified, was torn away from his brother. He looked around frantically, as well as he could considering he couldn't even hold his own goddamn head up. Betty – who was almost six feet tall and built like a linebacker – had Martha in a fireman's carry, wrapped in a blanket with blood seeping through. Dressed only in a robe and sneakers, Deirdre carried Richard along, accompanying Betty to her waiting car. A piercing spring breeze and bright sunlight stung the baby's face raw. He smelled something he would much later come to realize was sycamore sap rising. Betty put the barely-conscious Martha in the passenger seat while Deirdre placed Richard on the back seat floor, in an empty cardboard file box Betty kept for emergencies such as this. No baby seats were required back then.
Deirdre stood by the driver's seat door for a moment. "What should I do?"
"Feed that baby and keep him warm! I'll drop her off at the hospital and be back as soon as I can. Go on, Deirdre!"
Richard cried himself back to sleep on the way to the hospital, watching the indistinct shapes of newly-budded leaves through the rear window, green and gray blurring against a cold blue sky.
The gates were still pearly, but the clouds were dark, churning with things that might have been demons, might have been the souls of the damned, forming and unforming, undulating, peripheral visions of horror. Castle used his finger on the board to trace through the images, hundreds of blurry faces, some based on photos from the research and casework he'd done on serial killers. He saw horrible things, all the pain Michael had carried with him like a crooked cross, with tender souls, unique and innocent lives impaled on its arms. It was impossible not to hate Michael McGowran, who stood chuckling, watching himself torturing a woman who looked like Lanie, slowly strangling her on a lonely dock.
Castle's fury welled up. He wanted to rip those nascent wings out by the roots. He felt a tingling in his shoulder and a large, clawed hand curled chummily around his bicep.
"Go ahead," Mephistopheles purred in his ear. "You know you want to." Rick glanced over at the demon, who was as beautiful and ugly as ever. Tiny volcanoes like black barnacles clustered all over his hermaphroditic breasts, oozing lava, or perhaps pus, that blackened and rubberized into miniscule, sticky, clinging hands, beckoning him.
Petros' voice was firm at his other shoulder. "What are you here for? Revenge or rescue?"
"Thanks." He found the image, sitting in circle at preschool. He remembered Deirdre now, dropping little Mikey off late on his first day. Deirdre's body and face were skinny and lined, skin dry and scabby, her long blonde hair uncombed. She wore faded jeans, a too-tight shirt, and black high-heeled sandals. When she bent to kiss Michael goodbye, a pack of cigarettes tumbled out of her stained canvas purse. Mikey was stone-faced, skinny, and a little smelly, wearing a cheap yellow breast-pocket t-shirt with a ketchup blotch on the chest. Years before it became a routine for every preschool admittance, the first thing the teachers did was check little Mikey for head lice. Deirdre stood watching, embarrassed. Miss Shanita went over his head with the comb and magnifying glass. "He's clean," she said. She glanced at a bruise on Mikey's arm, then smiled sort of weirdly at Deirdre. "We've got him from here."
"Are you excited for your first day at school?" cooed Miss Shanita. Rick smiled, remembering her booming voice and complicated, beaded cornrows. She was the one who loved games and coloring and clapped her hands loudly to keep the rhythm when they sang together. She was a hugger.
Miss Janie – no, Jamie! - by contrast was low-key and soothing, with a fondness for the school's house plants, and for coloring and telling stories. She took Michael by the hand and said, "Richard, can you scoot over and make room? Thank you, honey."
Richard scooted over and patted the ground next to him. Mikey sat down shyly.
Miss Shanita said, "Okay, everyone, we're going around the circle. Remember how everyone made you feel welcome when you got here?
Miss Janie coached them."Now we're gonna all welcome Mikey, and Mikey's gonna say hi to each of us."
Richard had only started school a few weeks before, mightily enjoying the playtime and the stories and making leprechaun traps for St. Patrick's Day. But he remembered feeling just a little shy at the beginning, afraid that nobody would play with him. And circle time, where he had to sit still and criss-cross-applesauce, was sometimes a challenge. He was wiggling now, ready to get up and run around. He grinned at Mikey.
Miss Shanita said, "Richard, would you like to begin?"
"Hi Mikey. I'm Richard."
"Now, Mikey, you say, 'Hi Richard, I'm Mikey."
Mikey's brown eyes filled with tears, and he said nothing. Miss Janie said, "Somebody feeling a little shy today?"
"I want Deirdre."
"Your mommy?"
"Is she gonna come back?" Mikey quavered.
Miss Jamie said, "Of course she will. She'll pick you up at six, just like the other children. You'll see."
Richard said, "It's okay. Mommies always come back."
Mikey pouted. Richard said, "I have ants-on-a-log for snacktime." (Remember, this is before peanut butter was banned from schools because of allergies, and Richard Rodgers was tactless and self-centered, because he was four.)
Mikey's eyes went wide with mingled disgust and admiration. "You eat ants?"
The other children started giggling, and Richard cried, "Nooooo, silly! They're raisins!"
Mikey's face went red. "Don't laugh at me."
Richard simply couldn't conceive of someone who had never heard of ants-on-a-log. "You know, with peanut butter?"
A little girl – was it Linda? Lisa. – chimed in. "On celery!"
Mikey glowered at her. "Peanut butter goes on crackers. I had it for dinner last night."
Miss Jamie said gently, "All right, children. Let's move on. Alphonso, can you say hi to Mikey?"
Rick's mind drifted further forward, paging through Michael's murder board in a blurring, dizzying collection of images. Getting his stolen passport back in the mail, what, five years later? Postmarked Dublin 3, Ireland, but with no name or street number. The typed note: "We'll meet again." It hadn't connected, when he heard the music on Kelly Nieman's flash drive. Buried too deep. No context.
Blur. Riding his dented orange bike into Dublin on July 5, making a pay-phone call to a number Rosie had written on his arm with a Sharpie. "You can put your bike on the bus. Meet us on Grafton Street in front of Marks and Spencer." Standing on Grafton Street on a summer evening, surrounded with tony shops and tourist traps and the musical lure of HMV, with Declan's arm around his shoulder, Rosie on his other side, with her arm around his waist. They knew some buskers – a pretty girl with a fiddle, a teen boy tapping out a rhythm with a tambourine and an overturned restaurant bucket, a tall blond man on guitar, and a red-bearded man in his thirties, playing Danny Boy on the accordion. Teary-eyed tourists dropped spare change and small bills into the open fiddle case.
They sang a few traditional songs mixed with pop, a little something for everyone. Declan pulled out a blues harmonica and sang "Bad to the Bone", the girl's fiddle doing a wicked, shivery glissando in the background. Rick asked them if they knew anything by U2, They just rolled their eyes. "Wankers. They haven't done anything good since 'Boy'."
"Oh, come on. They're an institution."
Declan gave him a sharp, cold look. "Don't tell me about institutions," he snapped. He threw some money into the fiddle case; rather more cash than Rick might have expected. "Let's take a walk." He bowed a goodbye to the buskers and led Rick and Rosie away.
Rick spoke to his used, battered bike, figuring it was locked up and he'd be back to get it in a few minutes anyway. He'd bought it at a second-hand place in Limerick, and as they set out he waved to it.
"I'll be back..." he started, in a really bad Terminator impression, and as they walked away, Rosie said, "For that piece of shite?"
Rick shrugged. "It cost me fifty quid." He added:
"There once was a tourist named Rick,
who picked up a used bike in Limerick*
the wheels weren't quite round
and the brakes weren't sound
and the seat made a bruise on his..."
"Really? That's the best poem you can think of?" Declan snorted. "You sure you want to be a writer?"
Rick said, "It just needs a little polishing. Also I was drunk when I wrote it."
"I know what you've been polishing, and it ain't your poetry." Declan punched Rick's arm, laughing, and they wrestled a little, rather like puppies. It was so easy.
Rosie chided, "You're both eejits."
Rick didn't even think of the bike again until he was halfway across the Atlantic. For all he knew, the front wheel was still chained to a wrought-iron railing on Grafton Street.
They walked around for a while, and Rick spied what he at first thought was a woman under the streetlight. Then he realized it was a bronze statue of a buxom girl in a low-cut bodice and long skirt, pushing a cart. "Whoa, is that Molly Malone?" The bronze was polished, the color of brown-sugar toffee, and her breasts looked downright lickable, but he restrained himself.
Rosie burst into song. She had a nice voice, slightly burry but sweet, and the few passers-by remaining on a weeknight after 10 glanced at her and smiled as they walked by.
In Dublin's fair city
Where girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
She'd wheel her wheelbarrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Cryin' cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o
Growing bored with it, they meandered on. They stopped into a few pubs and watering holes where Rosie (who was a few years older) knew the owners and was able to get them pints even though they were under-age. Rick started with Guinness, then Murphy's, then at the third pub, switched to hard cider, which went down like soda and had him snockered in short order. Rosie said, "He's cute when he's drunk, in't he, Declan?"
Declan said through a gritty smile, "Oh, he's always cute. Everybody loves our RickyBoy."
Rick half-noticed an under-current of hostility, but wasn't sure if he'd done anything wrong. He slurred, "I love you too. You guys are great."
Rose and Declan exchanged a laugh. "Oh, we are," said Rose. "We are the best ever." She took him by the hand and led him out of the pub. They crossed an old bridge, heading northeast, then wound through streets that got progressively dingier, past closed-up shops and crumbling, empty housing. Having been an adventurous kid in New York City, Rick had been on gritty streets like this before, and there was safety in numbers, and (as previously mentioned) he was blotto. So he stumbled along with Declan and Rose, his surroundings barely registering. They walked for at least a half hour, though they sometimes stopped to laugh and make a point. The boys had a literal pissing contest on a wall (for the record, Rick pissed longer, but Declan could write his own name.) They passed a crumbling power station, then came to a long row of old stone Georgian town houses, all with narrow stairs leading up to doors that had once been brightly painted, but were now boarded up or, in some cases, just hanging off their hinges.
Declan was talking. "You know, some day I'm goin' to be rich. Really rich. All these fallin' down houses? I'm gonna buy the whole block on sale, fix 'em up, make them a place worth livin' in."
Rick chuckled. "Trust me, my mom's an actress and she can barely afford rent."
Declan replied, "Ah, acting's just for fun. I'm a hacker."
"What, an axe murderer?"
Declan and Rosie both stopped abruptly. Declan snickered. "No, eejit. I hack into computers."
"Like in War Games? I love that movie."
"Yeah, but no. Business accounts, shite like that. Take a few bucks off the top, and I'm gone before Daddy Warbucks even knows I was there."
"Is that even legal?" Rick's voice squeaked a little.
"Let's just say I'm a fan of Robin Hood," said Declan. This, Rick later realized, meant absolutely nothing, but it allayed his worries all the same. The only person on planet earth who doesn't like Robin Hood is probably Dick Cheney.
The third house in the row – number 18, or maybe it was 118 and one of the numbers had fallen off – had an old blue oak door, but it was nailed shut. Faint candlelight gleamed around the front window, breaching gaps where old newspaper had been taped as a blind. Declan led them around to the side. Rick, who hadn't been a boy scout but dearly loved to Be Prepared, produced a pocket flashlight from his backpack. Giggling, they clambered down through the broken basement window, then scrambled carefully up rotting stairs. They passed through the shambling kitchen, littered with smashed furniture. Tucked into a huge, ancient fireplace cove was a rusty old AGA cookstove that, on the U.S. Antique market, would likely fetch $2000. There was laughter and faint music in the side parlor. It smelled of hash and cigarettes, incense and candles and spilled booze. He looked forward, through the building to the inside of the blue door. It was half-swamped with a tsunami of fast-food trash, plastic bags, empty bottles, and cans. Something small moved amongst the rubble – likely a rat. Rick kept his mouth shut, not wanting to seem uncool.
Declan's friends looked up at Rick as he stumbled in. "Haha!" one of them said. She was a small, puffy, ragged woman of thirty or so, with short, spiky dark hair and very few teeth. "Fresh meat?"
Rick felt some alarm seep up through the booze in his system. Rosie just laughed. "Nah, he's just here for some fun," she said. She pulled him onto an old futon couch that had probably been wrestled out of a dumpster. The frame was held together with duct tape and a splint; the mattress was losing its stuffing, moldy, and also held together with duct tape. It was covered with a grotty white sheet printed with cartoon ladybugs and daisies. Rick looked over at Declan anxiously. He felt torn between kissing a reasonably pretty and obviously willing girl, and possibly messing up whatever she and Declan might have between them. Declan waved them along. "Eh, you kids. Just have her home before midnight. She turns into a gremlin."
Rick said, "Oh, I love that movie..."
Rosie snickered and threw an empty can at Declan. "Can you lads shut up about feckin' movies for five seconds? It's like you're separated at birth." She straddled Rick's lap, tangled her fingers in his shaggy mullet haircut, and started making out with him. And that was when the drugs came out.
•
The story as Castle told it in "In a Hail of Bullets" had not been exactly truthful. He hadn't mentioned Rosie trying to get into his pants when he was nearly senseless. In fact the sensations had all been so blunted, it was still no more than a blur. He was certain he'd been in no shape for sex, and for that, he was profoundly grateful. He had named the book's protagonist – himself – Michael, of all things! Damn twin effect. And of course Rosie had taken the name Kelly for her character, Kelly Nieman. That wasn't exactly a coincidence. Declan he hadn't renamed. Because Declan seemed like the one who had most betrayed him, and he was angry.
Castle also hadn't mentioned the part about throwing up in Molly Malone's whellbarrow. In his shock and disorientation, he told himself he was looking for his bike, and he vaguely remembered that Molly's statue was at the end of Grafton Street. He'd staggered alone out of the old house and found his way over a mile back, retracing his steps in the predawn darkness, through progressively less-shabby streets, to find (and vomit on) something familiar. The gardai had found him and taken him to hospital. He'd never bothered to go back and look for the bike. He'd declined to press charges, never sought out the squat house, nor Declan Connor, nor Rosie. In his youth, Castle had thought writing about it, making that horrible incident the catalyst for the chain of events in his first published novel, would be enough. Now he knew better, knew the regret. "You should have killed him when you had the chance." Was that what Kelly Nieman had meant? Was Rick to blame for all the murders they committed after he left Ireland? He shuddered, the guilt a visceral pain.
Rick's mind dialed down into sleep. Michael had disappeared. Petros and Mephistopheles were playing Battleship. Mephistopheles was wearing an odd helmet contraption between his horns, with an assortment of small mirrors on extendable arms and goosenecks, and suspended from little cranes. Meph was trying to extend the mirrors out to the other side of the Battleship board to guess Petros' ships' positioning. Petros was completely aware of the subterfuge, and didn't seem to care in the slightest. He grinned. "Dublin 3."
"You asshole!" gritted Meph. "You sunk my battleship!" The board exploded in a fountain of water, and blasted the demon away like a fire hydrant. He punched a snarling hole in a cloud and was gone.
Castle rolled over and looked at the laptop, perched on the pillow next to him. Kate had talked him through a guided meditation she'd learned from Dr. Burke. Then, assuming he was asleep, she'd logged off. He smiled dreamily at the empty skype window, then went to the desktop screen. 3XK's flash drive lurked there in the menu. He double-clicked on it, and the icon wiggled "Password Protected."
He sighed, frustrated, and steeled himself for another go. Seven characters. His left-hand fingers pecked in, "Dublin3"
"Sorry. Please try again."
"HiRicky".
"Sorry. Please try again."
"HiMikey"
His desktop chimed softly. "Accessing files."
•
July 1, 3 pm, Tullow Hotel Lobby, Ireland
Text from Commander •••••••• to Martha Rodgers:
•: Have made some progress, but haven't acquired target.
M: Why didn't you get back to me earlier?
•: Irish intelligence on our tail. Actually not an oxymoron.
M: Why?
•: Oh, you know, professional curiosity. No big deal.
M: Maybe you should invite them up for coffee.
•: Coffee here is worse than yours & they can't drink booze OTJ
M: So it hasn't improved in 30 years. Tea, then.
•: Excuse me, Irish Intelligence, if you'd like to chat, meet me at the hotel lobby this afternoon at 3.
M: Why are you tweeting that to me?
•: Texting not tweeting, my dear.
1) I don't have a direct line to them 2) you're a witness if we go missing.
M: Oh, GREAT.