A/N: N.B. 'Bumble' is a corruption of 'Abominable' as in "The Abominable Snowmonster of the North."
Let's get to it.
A Year Without Christmas?
Chapter Two: The Abominable Snowmonster of the North
Casey had a good talk with his mom. Brief but good.
He knew the holiday was difficult for her, and for lots of reasons, but among them was that Casey almost never could make it home, often unable to call or even send a card. He hadn't seen her face-to-face in almost five years.
She had gotten his card and loved it. It delighted her he called. He promised he would call her again tomorrow, on Christmas day, for a long and proper talk, and that he would try to see her as soon as he could.
Sorry, Mom. This job. My choices. All the lies that are my life. A tapestry of untruth.
Regrets.
The world looks different to me now than it did back then, back when I made my choices.
He thought of a small book his dad had airmailed to him. It had come from Greece, under exotic stamps. The book was palm-sized, light blue, oddly wire-bound but inside the cover. Springs of Greek Wisdom. Casey had memorized all the quotations in the book, one to a page on forty parchment pages. He had wanted to talk about them with his dad. That never happened.
If you have a wounded heart, touch it as little as you would an injured eye.
— Pythagoras
That had been Casey's motto.
Until last night.
The elevator sank slowly to the parking garage, and the doors opened.
Casey got off the elevator. The Vic was there, already parked but running. Casey saw Morgan; Morgan saw Casey and waved eagerly, a smile on his face. He gave Casey a big thumbs-up. Moron, you already told me on the phone. Casey smiled back though, the briefest of smiles, but genuine.
Morgan left the car running and got out, circling the front of the car as Casey circled the rear. They both got in.
"Shit," Casey grunted as his knees hit the dashboard, his chest the steering wheel. He reached down and pressed the button, scooting the seat back.
"Sorry," Morgan offered. "Forgot I had to move it way forward."
Shaking his head, Casey started driving, following Exit signs out of the parking garage. He glanced at Morgan as he stopped the car before entering traffic. "So, yeah?"
Morgan's lit-from-within grin was pure Jack-o'-lantern.
"Yeah! Told him that Sarah had talked to you about a Ring phone call. Someone saying he knew all about Chuck. Demanding a meeting. With photos and stuff. Like you said. Said she couldn't reach Shaw. She couldn't reach Chuck, since his phone wasn't working. And, as you predicted, Chuck panicked. He tried Shaw but couldn't get him, didn't know where he was. He grabbed his gun and badge and he ran out the door…"
Casey nodded firmly and pulled the Vic into traffic. "And?"
"And I gave him a bro-hug before he left, slipped the bug in his pocket protector. He had been getting ready for work."
"Took the Herder?"
"Yeah, he did."
"Figured. Good, tracker's on it already. But we know where he's going. This is one situation in which Bartowski is predictable — a Walker situation. They're both homing pigeons."
"He loves that woman something fierce," Morgan declared. "The look in his eyes when he thought she was in danger... Swear to God, I believe he'd use that gun for her…"
Casey nodded once more in agreement.
Morgan sat back, relaxed, grinned again, but this time in anticipation. "Okay, so now we have Clarice and Rudolph on a collision course, so what about the Bumble?"
"Heading to his place now. Making this part up as I go."
They drove on in near silence. Near silence. Morgan was humming to himself, humming In the Bleak Mid-Winter, but he gave the carol a little bounce as he hummed it. Casey let himself listen, partly out of surprise that Morgan knew it — partly because it dredged up a choke of memories.
Casey had belonged to a boys' choir. In the Bleak Mid-Winter had been a favorite of his to sing.
The choir prepared it for a Christmas concert. Casey's dad, John, was to be home that year. Casey's mom had gotten a letter promising so. The plan was for him to arrive in time to attend the choir concert. He hadn't. But Casey kept hoping. He stood on the choral risers with the other boys, searching the growing crowd of parents and grandparents, visitors. He saw his mother sitting in the rear.
Alone.
In the bleak midwinter. Gawddamnit. — The boy and the man swore as one.
Casey sang his heart out that night, singing to his lonely mother, to himself, to his father afloat on distant waters, singing to the stars, the Star, as tears ran down his cheeks. He didn't wipe them away. He sang and wept, wept and sang.
Christmas.
That was the last time Casey had hoped for a Christmas gift. For anything from Christmas. From then on, he met Christmas hopeless.
He wove in and out of traffic as Morgan switched carols. Casey continued to listen. After a moment, Morgan made a slow turn toward Casey. "Casey, what's a Harold Angel? Is that a famous angel, like...uh...Michael?"
"Christ, no, numb-nuts. It's Herald Angels. H-e-r-a-l-d. Herald."
Morgan ruminated on that. "So, what's a herald?"
"How can you have all that nerd code larded in your head, Tolkien and shit, Grimes, and not know English? A herald is a forerunner...a precursor...a harbinger."
Morgan scrunched up his face. "It helps when you define a word with words I know…"
"Jesus! It's someone who arrives ahead of a big event and tells people it's coming!"
Morgan seemed enlightened — and cowed. "Oh."
He stewed for a minute. "Oh! Like the angels that showed up and told the shepherds, right…"
"Right. Shit. Have you really been hearing Harold all this time?"
Morgan shrugged, looked away. Casey chuckled and shook his head, not unkindly.
They drove on in complete silence for a moment or two. But then Morgan turned to Casey again. "Do you think it'll work, Casey? Chuck and Sarah?"
Casey breathed out slowly through his nose. "Don't know. But we're giving them the chance the two idiots weren't going to give themselves."
"Yeah, yeah, but why are we worried about the Bumble? He doesn't know where they are."
"True, but he could raise a ruckus when he finds them both missing, raise it for professional and...personal reasons. We need him ignorant. More ignorant. Besides, I didn't have a chance to sweep Sarah's car — he might have a tracker on it too. Wouldn't shock me. Possessive type. And Chuck's Herder will show up. The damn thing is a tracker. No way of preventing that in the time I had."
Casey slowed the car and pulled into a spot in a line of cars near Shaw's apartment complex. Complex, Ha! — swear to God, there's something wrong with that guy.
Shutting off the engine, Casey looked around, tense, until he saw Shaw's car.
Looking at it, Casey felt a little ashamed of himself. A little.
All this time, Casey had known that Bartowski was sure that he was not Walker's type, that her type was Larkin, ...or Barker, ...or Shaw. And Casey had tormented the poor guy about it. But the torment had not been all malicious.
Casey kept hoping Bartowski would step up, would rise to his soul's pride, recognize that he was better than those jokers, whether Walker saw it or not. Nobler. But Walker saw it. Casey had also half-hoped his torment would drive Walker to tell Bartowski that, since she witnessed the torment.
Maybe she had. Still, it would always be hard for the kid to believe it.
Everything Walker told him was served with a stiff chaser of bitters, of doubt; everything she told him might be part of handling him. And Walker used that chaser when it was convenient, hid in it or behind it, about half the time. Casey sympathized with them both, even as they pissed him off. Royally. Casino Royally.
Casey was a man of decision. Watching the two of them wander in indecision for so long, squandering so much life, so much emotional energy…
Fa-la-ladyfeelings.
The Bumble, Shaw, lumbered from his cave...apartment. He was on the phone. Closing his door, he stood for a moment, talking, looking around. Situational awareness. He's a good spy, gawddamnit. Morgan felt Casey react, and he was now watching Shaw too.
Shaw's face was hard to read — but not impossible. It showed signs of surprise, then of...deep hunger. Gnawing need. Only then did the scene fully register on Casey.
A call. A phone. Shaw's phone was dead. Casey popped open the glove compartment suddenly, making Morgan jump. Casey grabbed a pair of binoculars, jammed them against his eyes.
Focusing them quickly, expertly, Casey examined the phone in Shaw's hand, able to make out detail he missed with his naked eyes. It was a Ring phone, maybe the Ring phone that had been in Castle. Who the hell is he talking to?
The need on Shaw's face became deep and raw. Bloody. And then Casey understood. Shaw was obsessed with the Ring. Not in the ordinary, careless sense of the term, but in the deep, psychologically disturbed sense. Unhinged. Obsessed.
Captain Ahab/Moby-Dick obsessed: Moby-Dick.
Annie Wilkes/Paul Sheldon obsessed: Misery.
What Casey took for single-minded, impersonal professionalism was not that at all. Casey mistook it. That was Shaw's cover. He was being impelled by something else, something warped, something warping — a consuming, personal obsession. Shit, shit, shit.
No wonder he was stiff as...particleboard. His stop-action emotions. All that needy hate churning inside, lava, cardio-thermal pressure...
This was a turn Casey hadn't foreseen.
Shaw finished the call, looked around again sneakily, and slid the phone in his jacket pocket. He pulled his keys out of the other pocket. He checked his watch then started toward his car, his steps quick and determined. When he got to his car, he looked down at his left hand. His wedding ring. The need returned to his face, raw again. Bloody. For a moment, Shaw's spy-mask vanished. His gaze left the present, drifted. Then he looked at his ring again, using his left thumb to rotate it on his finger. Casey shuddered. Creepy. Shaw climbed into the car and started away.
"You'll lose him!" Morgan exclaimed, clapping his hands on the dash.
"Tracker, Hermey, calm down. Know how to hunt the Bumble."
Casey let a minute or two pass, then he pulled out. He could see Shaw's car in the distance. Tailing was now automatic for Casey. He delegated the task to his skill and began to think.
This was about Shaw's wife. The wedding ring was not an opaque symbol, not speechless. It showed; it spoke.
Shaw had been hunting the Ring, dedicated himself to it, because he believed they, or someone among them, had killed his wife. Casey knew from a bit of snooping when Shaw first arrived that Shaw had been married, knew too that his wife was deceased.
But Casey had found little about her death and had not searched hard. Searching seemed morbidly curious. There was one brief story in a DC paper that noted that she had died in Paris, shot on the street by a mugger.
But if Shaw blamed the Ring for it, for his wife's death, then the mugger story was likely not a true story. Casey had done no more grave-digging, and he regretted it now.
He kept thinking, turning it all over. Names and faces. Questions.
Walker. Shaw's wife. — What did Walker know about Shaw, really? She knew he had been married. Did she understand Shaw's vendetta, his obsession?
Walker. Shaw's wife. Evelyn. That was his wife's name. Walker and Evelyn. The conjunction nagged at Casey's mind.
Evelyn. Killed by the Ring. Shaw. Walker. — Why would the Ring kill Evelyn Shaw? Possibly, she was collateral damage. Possibly. But — more likely — she was dead for a reason.
Shit. Evelyn Shaw had been in the game.
She had been a spy. Casey had no definitive proof, but his instinct was sure. — Did Walker know? Did she understand that she was...a stand-in? Evelyn's understudy? Understudy for a corpse. Walker as the loot in a spiritual grave-robbery.
Shaw's exhumation project.
Shaw's wife, a dead spy. Walker, a live spy. Evelyn, reanimated.
No wonder Shaw gave off a creepy vibe, death, death and...taxidermy! The rich Englishman. Shaw was hugging death to him, embracing the dead, putting Walker in a corpse's place. Not stuffed, exactly, but not wanted for herself, for the living woman she was…
Casey shook his head. That was too bizarre, and he had a car to tail.
Shaw. The Bumble. He thought of the Bumble's everlasting toothache. Shaw's everlasting heartache. A tooth could be extracted, — but a heart?
Shaw was not in a hurry; still, he was not dawdling. A man on a schedule. He had looked at his watch. A man with an appointment to keep. With the person on the phone.
Casey glanced to the passenger seat. Morgan was sitting forward, his eyes glued to Shaw's car, caught up in it all if not understanding. It would have been good to have Walker along. Best partner I ever had. Morgan would have to do.
He'd do.
Casey was unsure what was going to happen. Stalling Shaw had been one thing, tricky but do-able. Casey had done similar things on many missions. He trusted himself to pull it off on the fly. But this had...metastasized into something else, or it looked like it had.
"Listen, Grimes. When we get...wherever Shaw is going, I need you to stay in the car, in the Vic. Do you hear me?"
Morgan looked hurt, disappointed. "Yeah, I hear you."
"Good. Keep your phone on you. You are on stand-by. If you get a text from me, do exactly what I ask, exactly as I ask you to do it."
Morgan seemed to be catching up. "What's going on, Casey? How come Shaw's phone works? Won't that screw things up?"
"Not Shaw's phone. It belongs to the Lost Boys who held you and Chuck in Castle."
"The Ring?"
Casey nodded, allowing his genuine concern to show.
"Oh, okay, wow. Wow. So, is Shaw doing some sorta Lone Ranger thing, trying to take down the Ring on his own? Wouldn't that be his kind of grandstand play?"
"For a Harold, you ain't stupid, Grimes."
It took a second for Morgan to do the word-math. "Gee, thanks. Smack on one end, pat on the other."
Casey smiled a little grimly. "Just good parenting."
"Learn that from your dad?"
Casey knew Morgan was just talking, joking, but the remark cut to the quick.
The old man seemed to be on Casey's mind and wouldn't get off. Probably the jacket.
Jonathan Quigley Coburn. Casey's dad had named Casey Alexander, after Alexander the Great, general of Greek antiquity, but Casey's mom just called him Johnny-Boy, and the nickname stuck. Casey had chosen the apparently forgettable first name of John when taking on an alias as a way of remembering his dad.
His dad's ship sank not long after Christmas the year of the boys' choir concert. Another reason not to like this time of the year.
The sinking season. Death at sea. Saltwater. Tears.
Casey did not think about that tragedy often, worked hard to keep it from his mind. He and Walker had intuited each other's desire to steer clear of the holidays, sentiment — until Bartowski drove them into a head-on collision with heartwarming.
Casey returned his attention to Morgan.
"No, he wasn't around enough for me to learn much from him, except a sense of duty."
Morgan's eyes opened wide with shock at a personal detail from Casey. Casey shook his head internally. Who do I know? Who knows me? — Nobody. Casey expected Morgan to push for more, but he sat back.
"My dad wasn't around either," Morgan said no more, but it touched Casey. He grunted softly.
Shaw pulled his car into the parking lot of an established LA eatery, famous for breakfast in particular, Comfort Food.
Casey knew it. He had eaten there once or twice. Good pancakes served 24/7. It was on the bottom floor of a three-story building, the top two floors occupied by business offices, although Casey had never paid any attention to their names.
Casey did not enter Comfort Food's parking lot. He pulled into the lot across from it.
The holiday had decreased the number of people out and Casey found a spot that allowed him to aim the Vic toward the front door of Comfort Food, but at a distance that made it unlikely anyone would notice the car.
As Casey shut off the car, he thought about one of the few happy memories he had of his dad. Casey had been ten, maybe. They were washing his dad's Crown Vic together. The washing ended in a laughing, gleeful water fight. Casey could almost smell the warm fall day, the sudsy water — but the odor remained just out of reach, tantalizing, not something he could remember, not something he could forget.
Shaw bumbled his way into Comfort Food, shoulders up, eyes staring. This was not to be a friendly meeting.
"Stay in the car," Casey spoke the words to Morgan as he got out.
Casey jogged through an opening in traffic and approached the restaurant. He slowed as he got to the door. He looked inside and did not see Shaw near the door. He went in, stopping in the small vestibule. Hanging on a coat rack near the door was an old knit cap, red. Casey grabbed it and pulled it low on his head. He turned up the collar of his CPO jacket.
He ducked his head and walked out into the large dining.
Shaw was greeting another man diagonally across the dining room from where Casey stood.
The meeting was unfriendly. They sat down in a corner booth, well away from anyone else. Casey quickly walked to the corner booth on the other side of the restaurant. He slipped in it and sat down, moving to a spot Shaw would have to rotate to see, although it left Casey in view of the other man.
The other man was large, African-American. He wore a suit but no tie and carried a briefcase.
A waitress came by Casey's table. Another arrived at Shaw's table at the same time.
"Happy Holidays! What'll ya have? Would you like our Santa's Sleigh Special? Eight pancakes stacked high with a bright red cherry on top. One for each of the reindeer, and the cherry, you know, for Rudolph."
The waitress, a young woman, smiled. She had brown hair. Her name tag said Alex.
Casey blinked at the coincidence. "Huh, that sounds good," Casey chuckled, "but I can't remember the names of the other reindeer. Can you?"
She gave him a funny look. "Um…" She shot him a smirk that seemed familiar for a moment, then she put her hand on her lower jaw and moved it side to side, a caricature of thought, and also...familiar somehow. "Let's see, I think they were...Pride, Envy, Anger, Sloth, Gluttony, Greed and Lust."
Casey shook with quiet laughter. "I think that's only seven — and isn't that the list of the Seven Deadly Sins?"
She gave him a wink but stuck with her story. "I think the eighth is Vainglory, but I was never sure how he differed from Pride."
"I'm not sure either," Casey said, glancing over Alex's shoulder as the other waitress left the booth where Shaw and the man were sitting. "Wait, I thought the eighth was the cherry, Rudolph."
The young woman laughed. "Could be. Maybe that's the vice of the bright red nose. And I admit, I was never big on naming my food. I like to eat anonymity."
Casey laughed again, keeping the other booth in sight. He started to tell her he liked her name, but worried that would come off wrong. Old guy, young gal. "So, yeah, I'll have the special. And coffee. Oh," Casey stopped her, "I was in a week ago and left a pair of glasses here. Dark rims. They're for reading. I assume you have a Lost and Found."
She nodded. "Sure. I'll check." Casey thanked her.
He slid back into the booth further, keeping the cap low and his collar high. Shaw and the man were in intense conversation, herky-jerky gesticulating. The man was making some offer to Shaw; Shaw was...negotiating. Casey wished he could read lips, but he'd been no good at that. Still, their behavior was easy enough to understand. Their waitress brought them coffee.
A moment later, Casey's waitress, Alex, came back to his table. She had about five pairs of glasses in her hands. "I brought them all, all the ones that were dark-framed."
Casey had taken a chance. Almost every restaurant in America had eyeglasses in a box somewhere, glasses left behind by customers and rarely reclaimed. She extended her hands in offer. Casey looked at them, trying to find a large pair with a heavy frame. He saw a pair, black.
"Hey, there they are." He took them up and put them on. Luckily, they more or less fit. Alex went out-of-focus through the lenses.
Casey gave her a smile, and she grinned. "Lucky. Be back in a minute with your coffee."
As she walked away, Casey put the glasses in his lap beneath the table. He popped out the corrective lenses, then put the glasses back on, the lenses gone. He put the lenses in the breast pocket of his coat. He put the collar of his jacket down a bit and checked on Shaw. Casey knew his thin disguise would not fool a direct look, but the whole point was to keep the men, Shaw especially, from looking directly.
The conversation between the men had intensified. Shaw's negotiations were being refused. The man held up his hands at Shaw. He picked up his briefcase from the floor seat beside him and opened it, producing a laptop computer. He put it on the table.
He reached back into the briefcase and took out a thumb drive.
The man held it up, saying something to Shaw, enticing him with the thumb drive, waving it like a dog treat. Shaw's face darkened. At first, he shook his head. The man started to put the thumb drive back, and then Shaw stopped him. There was open desperation in Shaw now. He was staring at the thumb drive as he had stared at his wedding ring.
The man looked at Shaw, waving the thumb drive again, like a talisman. The two men were so intent on their conversation that neither was paying attention to anything else. Whatever was going on, it was personal on both sides now, particularly Shaw's.
It must have something to do with his wife, his wife's death. — But what? Why? What would the Ring stand to gain by giving information about Evelyn's death to Shaw?
Unless they did not do it. Unless they knew who did.
Of course, they could be lying, offering Shaw misinformation in the form of information.
Casey saw Shaw mouth a word, and it was one Casey could read as it came off Shaw's lips. Evelyn. The other man nodded. Shaw lunged up over the table but the man pulled the thumb drive back. He asked Shaw a question, staring.
Shaw sank back down and nodded. He had agreed to...something. The man held the thumb drive but took out his phone, a Ring phone, and made a call. As he did, he glanced toward the door.
Casey texted Morgan. Watch the door. Remember the car each patron comes in.
Shaw was fidgeting, staring at the man's hand, the one with the thumb drive.
Another man entered the restaurant, white, medium-build, balding. The man at the booth had turned to look, expecting him. They made eye contact. It was obvious the new man was in charge. The look from the man at the booth was immediately deferential.
Casey texted Morgan. The man who just came in. Get a tracker from my bag. Like the one you put on Walker's car. Put it on his, under the rear bumper.
Morgan responded. Aye, Aye, Captain.
Casey: Get back in the car as soon as it's done. Keep your head down.
The new man sat down in the spot the other man had made by sliding further into the booth.
Shaw was now staring at the new man.
"Here ya go, Mister. The Special!"
Casey's waitress returned, carrying what looked like a plated Leaning Tower of Pisa. Somehow, the Tower remained on the plate. Alex set it down carefully. She looked at the table. "Damn, I forgot your coffee…Got focused on the glasses, no pun intended..."
"...John," Casey responded, "My name is John, Alex. Say, don't turn around, but that booth behind you...with the three men, the laptop. Do you think you could warm up their coffee, and tell me what they are talking about?"
She gave him a puzzled look. "Are you some sort of detective?"
"Yeah, some sort."
"Thought so. Those are officially the clearest lenses I have ever seen in a pair of readers. Absolutely no glare." She smirked at him and he smirked back. She gave him a funny look, cocked her head to the side in thought. Then she shook her head, not in refusal but to aid a change in focus. "Okay, I'm game. Back with your coffee in a minute, after a stop at Mildred's table..."
She walked away. Shaw was nodding at the new man. The new man took the thumb drive from the other man and put it in the computer. He typed for a minute, then turned the laptop so that the screen faced Shaw.
Shaw watched in barely restrained horror.
As Shaw watched, Casey saw Alex start toward the booth, coming to it from an angle so that only Shaw could see her. But he was not looking. She crept nearer and stopped, a coffeepot in one hand, a coffee cup in the other. She was listening. Shaw whitened. He said Evelyn again. Then he sat bolt upright. He said something else, but he put his hand to his mouth as he did, recoiling.
Alex chose that moment to step to the table, as if on a normal 'warm-up' round. The men all jumped, startled. She gave them a natural smile and started pouring coffee without asking. Her movements were perfunctory, easy. Very good, Alex.
She left and headed to other tables before she headed toward Casey. The new man watched her for a minute but then shifted back to Shaw, expectant, victorious. He seemed to have no more interest in Alex.
Alex stopped at two more before approaching Casey's booth. She was careful to position herself between him and the men in the other booth. "There was some video on the computer screen. The dark-haired man was staring at it. They paused it. Glimpsed a blond woman, maybe. I heard him say a name: 'Sarah'?"
Casey braced his hands on the table. Evelyn. Sarah. What the…?
Alex was studying him. "Is that bad?"
"Maybe. Do me a favor, please. Forget all about this. Don't go back to that booth and don't come back to this one."
Casey took his wallet out and put a fifty in her hand. "For the pancakes — and the service."
She smiled. "You didn't eat any. They must have forgotten to put Gluttony in."
Casey smiled back. "I'm sure it's good. And I'm watching Anger." He grabbed the cherry from the top and popped it in his mouth.
She giggled. "You're an interesting sort of detective."
She put the fifty in her apron pocket and walked away. Something tickled the back of Casey's mind. She looked like someone...Who?
He had no time to think more. The two men gathered up the computer and got up from the booth, leaving Shaw seated. The balding man spoke to Shaw one last time and Shaw, his face stricken, nodded without looking up. The balding man threw Shaw the thumb drive. He caught it, then shifted it in his left hand. He seemed to be staring at it and at his wedding band — all at once. The two men left. Casey hoped Morgan had gotten the tracker and put it in place, gotten back in the car, but Casey had no time to check.
Shaw looked lost, wrathful. He put the thumb drive on the table. Casey could see Shaw twisting a napkin in his hands beneath the table, shredding it.
Casey took off the glasses and the cap, shoving them into his crowded pockets. He crossed the restaurant and slid into the booth opposite Shaw.
"Shaw."
Shaw's head snapped up. "Casey. Casey? What the hell are you doing here?" He grabbed the thumb drive, trying to make the motion casual but failing.
"Wondering the same about you."
"Just having a late breakfast."
"And entertaining friends. Coffee klatch?"
Shaw laughed, but the laugh became a sneer. "What's it to you?"
Casey shrugged casually. "Nothing. Just looked like you were playing…"
"Playing? Playing what?"
"Ring toss."
Shaw stiffened but tried to hide it. "Hilarious. Didn't know you were a comedian. Thought that was Bartowski's gig."
Casey gave Shaw a smug smile. "Thought Walker was Bartowski's girl."
Shaw's eyes narrowed. "Not anymore. She's mine." His tone made it clear he meant that as a final comment. But Casey could see, now that he was face-to-face with Shaw, that Shaw was close to some sort of break. The tone in which he declared Walker his was not the tone of a lover.
It was the tone of a hunter.
Casey felt a chill. He knew the tone. He'd used it. Hell, I used it on Walker and Bartowski on that rooftop that night. I even mentioned pancakes.
Shaw had heard himself. He let his eyes open again and tried to smile. "Losers, weepers…"
"Jesus, Shaw, you manipulate the kid and Walker, and then you feed me cliches? No wonder your wife left you."
Shaw's eyes became molten.
Casey got no joy from it, from rough-housing with Shaw's heartache, but the man had to be made to declare himself. He was a clear and present danger — to himself, to Walker, to anyone who got in his way.
Casey still wasn't sure what Shaw saw on the computer, but it involved Walker. It also seemed to involve Evelyn.
The math struck Casey like lightning. Evelyn's death. Walker. Shaw's reaction to the video. His tone. Walker. Evelyn. Shit.
Walker did it. She terminated Shaw's wife. The Ring had proof. The video, the thumb drive.
Shaw stared at Casey as if he could kill him by fatal vision. "Never mention my wife. Ever. A man like you…"
"Shit, Danny, a man like me? How the hell are we any different? Spy," Casey said, stabbing his finger at Shaw, "and spy," he finished, touching his own chest with the same stabbing finger. "No difference — well, except for that selling your soul to the devil thing. I haven't done that."
Shaw wanted to say nothing but he couldn't keep from speaking. The words ate their way out of him like acid. "Yes, you have; you just don't know it. Too many Oorahs, Jarhead."
"Did your wife work for the devil too, sell her soul?"
Shaw bared his teeth. "She...was...loyal. She was no double agent."
Bingo. That's why Walker...holy fucking shit...Walker's Red Test.
"What about you, Danny? Are you loyal?"
Shaw's eyes glowed. "I'm...loyal...to the right things."
"Shit, don't play semantics with me, Danny. Not smart enough. You just had coffee with a Ring agent — and his boss." Push him. Push him. Push him. "Guessing they recruited you. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Is that how it works, Danny?"
Casey was working from intuition now, on subtle signs from Shaw. Shaw's right hand slipped beneath the table.
Casey saw it but did not react, did not let on. This was the crucial moment. Declare yourself, Shaw.
The moment came, the movement. Casey willed himself to remain still. Shaw's eyes emptied of all effort at deceit. They were full of hate, anguish. "Don't move, Casey, or you'll be singing soprano."
Casey shrugged, despite knowing Shaw was aiming his gun at Casey's gut. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Shaw looked puzzled for a second, then his gaze leveled again. Tortured and crazy or not, he's dangerous. "We're going to get up and go…" — Shaw looked around — "up the stairs."
Clever. Christmas Eve. The upstairs offices will be empty, or nearly so.
The door to the upstairs had a small window in it. Beside it was a green sign with the single climbing arrow that served as a symbol for stairs.
"There's no reason," Shaw continued, "for any innocent bystanders to get hurt. We can finish this talk upstairs."
Casey did not move to get up. "Really, Danny. What are you going to do, shoot me?"
Shaw shrugged. "Yes, if by that you mean kill you. I can't have you getting in the way."
"The way of what? Your constipated revenge? Are you really going to murder...Walker?"
"Murder? No, I don't see it that way. Execute her? Yes. She has to die. She did it; she executed my wife."
And there it was. The declaration.
"Get up, Casey. Be the honorable Marine one last time. You shouldn't have gotten involved in this. I don't know how or why you ended up here, but it doesn't matter. First you, then Walker."
"And then...you?" Casey asked.
Shaw did not answer.
"What would Evelyn say, Shaw?" Casey softened his tone, but he stood as he did.
Shaw was right about innocents. Casey would not let any innocent get hurt or let their family receive a phone call on Christmas. He looked around.
Alex was at the counter in the distance, talking to Matilda. Good.
He led Shaw to the door. Shaw hid his gun in his jacket pocket.
When they were through the door, Casey sighed.
He thought about his mom. Thank God he called her earlier. He thought about Bartowski and Walker. They should have found each other by now; if not, then soon. He wished them well.
Casey was not giving up, but he was not going to go, if he went, unprepared. Almost chuckling to himself, he thought of Grimes. Hermey. The Bumble turned out to be in worse shape than we knew, Hermey.
As he climbed the stairs, Casey asked his question again. "What would Evelyn say, Shaw?"
"She'd tell me to put the gun down, stop this madness."
"So, why don't you?"
"Because...she only exists in the fucking subjunctive, Casey. 'If she were here…' She's now nothing but a part of my imagination, my desire. 'If she were here…' But she's not. She's dead. Walker executed her on a cold Paris street. Walker did it. So she will die too, take her place in the subjunctive. Climb, Casey."
"Thought you cared about her," Casey observed as he climbed the stairs. "About Walker."
Shaw took a moment to answer "I thought she might...help with...things, the pain, and she did for a while, but I think it was mainly the chase, winning her. Once I did, I...well, the pain just came back…"
"You never did, you know…"
"Never did what?"
"Win her. Don't doubt it seemed that way, that she made it seem that way, but do you really think the Red Test would make her fall out of love with Bartowski? She loves him, then Bang!, she doesn't? Even you can't be that far from understanding the human heart. You didn't win her. Bartowski didn't lose her. Not really. She lost herself."
Shaw growled. "Don't talk to me about the human heart. You have no goddamn clue about pain."
That I feel sorry for you, Shaw, doesn't mean I don't judge you a shithead. Pain, pain I know. Got clued in a long time ago. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.
They had climbed two flights of stairs. They trudged up one more, Shaw's gun now in his hand. Casey was looking for an opening, some way to turn the tables.
They went up one more flight. It ended with a door to the ceiling. It was standing ajar.
Casey pushed it open and blinked in the mid-morning sun. When Shaw emerged too, Casey stopped. Shaw walked up and put the gun barrel against Casey's back. "Walk to the edge, Casey, the rear of the building."
Slowly, deliberately, stalling now, Casey began to move in that direction. He saw nothing that would help him. There was a large AC unit on the building, but little else. Casey had his gun, but it was holstered; he was sure he could never get it out before Shaw killed him.
Before he got to the edge, he would try it. It was his only chance. He was a few steps from the edge when Shaw gave him a command. "Stop."
Casey took a breath, focusing himself, finding his calm center. No luck.
"Sorry it came to this, Casey. It's not personal."
"The hell it isn't, Shaw, this is all personal."
"Huh. Maybe. Now that you mention it, I guess so."
Casey braced himself, picturing his motions as he intended them to be.
"Duck, Bumble!"
Casey whirled. It was Morgan's voice. Morgan rushed from behind the A/C unit. Shaw spun. Morgan collided with Shaw before he could get his gun up.
Morgan bounced back from the collision. So did Shaw. Backward into Casey.
Casey grabbed him. Shaw twisted hard. But the twist cost him his grip on the thumb drive, until then still in his left hand. It landed on the rooftop.
Casey twisted back, the two men stumbling, wound around each other, toward the edge. Close. Closer. At it, Casey turned, Shaw's gun arm trapped beneath his arm. With his other arm, he elbowed Shaw's head with all the strength he could muster. Shaw stumbled back a step, then disappeared.
Then, there was a loud, dull…
...thump.
Casey turned and looked down. Morgan walked up beside him, gasping, stopping to scoop up the thumb drive. He looked down, making a face even before he did.
Shaw was on the pavement. One leg was bent in a distorted, unnatural direction. His gun was on the pavement two yards from him. He tried to crawl to it, but he cried out, grabbing at his shoulder. He sank onto the pavement, not moving, sobbing. "No, no, no…"
Casey looked up, turned his head to Morgan. He was relieved — for himself, for Walker, for Morgan. But he was sad too, a little, for Shaw. Still, he'd given Shaw a chance to stop. Shaw's obsession would not allow it.
Casey laughed darkly, shaking his head, and looked back down at Shaw, who was still spluttering immobile pained No's.
"What is it?" Morgan asked, hearing the laugh, seeing the head-shake.
"Guess it's not true."
"What?"
"That Bumbles bounce."
A/N: "God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…" Ahem. Cough.
— Our story took quite the plunge there, didn't it? But, never fear, this is a Christmas tale, but a Zettel Christmas tale, so life's "crazy plaid" (to borrow a phrase from a hero, Dorothy Parker) is on display...um...literally on Casey's CPO Jacket...literarily in the story.
The Parker phrase is in her wonderful poem, The Veteran. That poem's been on my mind, along with Rankin/Bass Christmas shows, Christmas carols, deadly sins, and dark obsessions. The poem captures something that is, for me, very much on Casey's heart in this story, a kind of emotional background. It's easy to find the poem online.
If you like Casey's POV, I will mention that Beckster1213 has a really good, short fic told from it. WvonB's stories dive into Casey's POV from time to time with lovely results.
Tune in next time for Chapter Three: "Re-united, Or a Tape-Delay". What is the fallout (sorry) of events at Comfort Food? — And what's happening with Chuck and Sarah?
Thanks to David Carner and My Song Story for virtual-hosting this Christmas fic extravaganza. Our own little Hallmarky Chuckmas. Chucktide? Something like that.
Leave me a thought or comment, please? It's the season of giving...Don't be pre-ghost Scroogy!
