The watchmaker was not deceived: exactly two hours later, Detective Beckett's old-new watch lay gently on a velvet cushion, beneath an equally pleasant cover. A single glance was enough to make Castle soar with joy: It was almost impossible to compare the watches before and after the fire. Before he ducked into a cab, Castle took one more meticulous look at the thing, shook his head, and even clucked his tongue in pleasure. The next step was no more complicated than the previous one, but it did involve a certain amount of risk. WHERE and HOW to return the missing Beckett, and do it in such a way that she did not see any trick? Should I simply, without further ado, offer it up over a glass of wine, or return it to her usual place at the precinct? Sitting on the rundown couch of the old Chevrolet, Rick ruffled his short curls in a puzzled way. The first option looked somehow crumpled, illogical, at the same time having a certain touch of piquancy, and therefore unlikely to be to his muse's liking. The second suggestion is noticeably better, then Beckett will not perceive his gift as a gross intrusion on her privacy.
However, Castle was pathologically unlucky: someone constantly loomed near them. Avery's judicious judgment, Jordan's once stern and now vaguely smiling, and the stern-looking guys who were supposedly discussing something important but were actually staring at them dumbly. And the break room was so crowded, that the unceremonious invasion of the feds on their coffee machine even began to freak out Castle. What the hell kind of an explanation was it, when an ordinary, innocent coffee foam was perceived by their team as a frank, unambiguous hint. No, patience and patience again.
And so the day was wasted. It was a cozy evening in the enchanting aromas of cherries, with friendly bickering and mostly business talk, and Castle still did not dare to raise a painful for him subject. No, it wasn't that Rick was stupidly afraid of uncomfortable questioning; he just didn't want Beckett, embittered by her enforced idleness, to run away from him without looking back once more.
When the door to his bedroom, separating him and Kate, gently slammed shut, Castle plopped down on the sofa with pleasure and covered his eyes with fatigue. The tart, fragrant wine successfully smoothed out his disheveled emotions, and he was about to succumb to the enchanting embrace of Morpheus, but was he calming himself down too quickly? After all, it's Kate, the relentless and determined Catherine Beckett, who has already lost a lot in this life, and he, Richard Castle, will be damned if Beckett doesn't rush after the clock alone. Oh, it's so in her style, and it's likely to happen tonight, but how do you find something that isn't even in the ruins? Realizing that blood alcohol was not his friend, but his enemy, Castle ran to the office to get some power buttons. He took a few at random and tried the "method" right on the move. As soon as he clenched his fist hard enough, the glowing points plunged into the body without any pity and without making any allowance for belonging. It hurt, of course, but if he was wrong about Beckett's intentions, by morning his palm would be a target, and the patches would stick to his arm like pamphlets to a billboard. But his case was a special one, and the ubiquitous prickles of the sea devil were not without them.
Putting his fist with "stuffing" under his head, Castle stretched to his full height and fell asleep, breathing as smoothly as possible. He didn't know how long he'd been numbing himself, but when the bedroom door creaked open, Castle knew that all his anguish would be repaid a hundredfold.
The drowsy stupor was gone, and his hearing was sharp enough to slice cheese with it. For the sake of plausibility, Castle thought of snorting, but then he realized that it didn't work, it didn't work at all. If only Kate did not recognize his pretense.
Beckett's quick, light footsteps froze at his bedside, and by the scent of cherry trees, and by the uneven breath of excitement Castle realized that Kate was very near and, most likely, staring at him. Here she came close to his face, trembling with the warmth of her skin and her hot breath; here, ascertaining his "serene sleep," she sighed with a strange mixture of regret and guilt. She gently stroked her cheekbone with a fold of her finger, carefully removed a lock of hair from her forehead, and then hastily yanked her hand away; then the sneaking steps fell silent at the front door. A second set of keys rattled, a flashlight button clicked, and the lock clicked.
Rick jumped up at once. Breathless, he sat up, covering his face with his palms. The spots where she had touched him stung more than the burns on his wrist, and somehow Castle felt like a man caught up in something bad, shameful, base. But it only seemed that way. Whatever Beckett's subsequent reaction, he could not, had no right to keep HER thing.
It didn't take long to pack. After shoveling her car keys, spare flashlight, and watch box into her pockets, Castle sprinted outside with the words, "I guess it's time!...
...At the fence tape, Beckett slowed down and listened to the silence before ducking under it until her ears rang: was there anyone unauthorized in her apartment? She habitually groped for the gun sticking out of her pocket, sincerely hoping to avoid the who-wanted-and-wanted-for-anyone shooting. And it was impossible not to agree: it was one thing to shoot at the defenseless, and quite another to hunt a man armed to the teeth, who did not see himself as a simpleton. Or rather, she would be the hunter, but for now Beckett tried to make herself as safe as possible: she deliberately fled from Castle through the back door; she moved along the street along the walls with caution, avoiding as much as possible shimmering shop windows and just lit places. It was not unreasonable to slip suddenly around the corner, then glance cautiously back, and if all was quiet, with a quiet conscience to quicken her step. Beckett caught a cab when she was more than a block away from the loft. She crept down the stairwell to the second floor with her back to the wall, gently and evenly, quieter than a cat, carrying her weight from foot to foot, until at last she found herself on the threshold of her house. Even if it smelled of burning, in shambles, but still, the closest and dearest. But it was necessary to make sure that there were no uninvited guests in it.
Inside it was quiet, eerie, and impenetrably dark. Not even the powerful plafond of the openwork bay window, illuminating the street from the height of the second floor, helped, and if not really blinding lantern of Castle, the shameless creeps would have scattered shyly galloping all over her strained back. With such "illuminating" support it was much easier to look for the "pin in the haystack," especially since someone's "sincere" efforts had already cleaned up the biggest garbage by the time she returned. Only what could not or did not have time to burn was left on the stone floor. Charred book bindings and heads mingled with porcelain shards into a shapeless heap. Melted into clumps, deformed plastic and many other things that had once been useful to the landlady were drowned in piles of ash. And when Beckett's light foot stepped on the broken glass, its nasty and treacherous creak made her cringe and wrinkle as if she had a toothache. At least no one was bothering her, but the nervous tension that seemed to come out of nowhere couldn't be beaten all at once. It can only be knocked down: painstaking, slow and, it would be desirable, productive search, but otherwise - no way. Because she is not accustomed to retreat. Because for the sake of peace of mind it cannot be otherwise. Because it is necessary to believe in yourself, in your abilities, and also in fantastic luck. That leaves her eternal, ubiquitous problem - Castle, to whom you can not say anything at all yet. Of course, this will not save her from his crazy theories, which she rejects with righteous indignation and, avoiding a muddler underfoot, sends him away... No, not to the ends of the earth, to visit Santa, but to the nearest barista, for a good portion of vanilla latte. Let him work as a coffee deliveryman for a while, because there's been too much of it lately.
- Damn it! Well, where are they? - After a quick look around the apartment, she found herself back in the hallway, which must have been just as damaged as the other rooms. In the afternoon Beckett had persistently searched through the wooden debris for a dull sheen of metal, or at least something that resembled a clock, but with witnesses and empty hands it would not have worked. Now she had a penknife and a flashlight, which would be a great help.
Beckett set it up so as to illuminate the place as best she could, and, helping herself with her free hand, began to rummage through the garbage. She pulled apart some shards and pieces of plaster, pushed aside the splintered boards as she moved slowly away from the entrance, but, alas, so far to no avail. Under the mangled dresser and a couple of yards away, the search yielded nothing, and snorting with frustration and sweat dripping into her eyes, Kate took her displeasure out on her own lip. I wonder what would be so unusual that Castle would suggest to her? A super-magnetic super-spy, a photonic quasi-mine detector, or would he just settle for a robot sapper? Great is this "mystery" of the seven seals, and Beckett willy-nilly smiled at her own, eerily unserious thoughts. Help is certainly a good thing, but while Castle is sweetly but unfulfillingly daydreaming in her loft, her personal mission will come to a successful conclusion.
With her hands at her seams, Kate straightened up and covered her eyes with her head tilted back. A little brainstorming, and the path of the blast wave was roughly made up. Yes, that's how it happened, or else the wreckage in the hallway wouldn't have been thrown into the center of the living room. Clocks are much more compact than furniture panels, and given the layout of the apartment, they could have been thrown into a corner somewhere.
Beckett smiled contentedly to herself. Her gut told her that the clock was definitely here, waiting for her somewhere nearby, yes. Feeling her pulse quicken, Beckett listened again, holding her breath. Noise, noise in its own way outside the window of midnight New York, and he, the majestic handsome man, doesn't care about her personal drama. Of course, as a cop, she will still be there for him, body and soul, day and night, but still Detective Beckett is herself and for herself. You couldn't have said it more accurately.
- Phew! - Kate exhaled a drawling, slow exhale, shining a light under her feet, but no sooner had she taken a step than a suspicious rustling sounded in the far corner, behind the cauldron. She was neither surprised nor frightened before she plucked a barrel from her groove and poked it warily into the darkness.
- Who's there? - Beckett pointed the light in the same direction. - It's the police! Come out, on the count of three!
- I could have sworn you missed something, too!
It could only have been him, and her armed hand dropped spontaneously.
- Oh, my God! Castle!