Chapter 8

It wasn't for a good ten minutes that Castle realised that Montgomery had – no doubt deliberately – failed to provide the slightest hint as to where Beckett's cabin was. Out of town covered the whole of the USA that wasn't Manhattan.

Well, Castle knew a guy. Several, in fact. Which was just plain fine and dandy, because he surely wasn't going to ask anyone at the precinct. Everyone was being mean to him, and it just wasn't fair, because if Beckett hadn't gone with Demming, he wouldn't have invited Gina.

(And if you hadn't gone with Ellie, she wouldn't have gone with Demming, a little voice reminded him, which also wasn't fair, because if Beckett had given him the slightest hint that she was interested he wouldn't have gone with Ellie. Which was going around the same loop he'd already been around several times and wasn't getting him anywhere except mad with the whole damn lot of them.)

He put in another message to Beckett: Beckett, heard you got hurt, hope you're okay, call me. RC, and then called one of his extensive network of information-hunters and private investigators.

In less than an hour, he had an answer, and an address. What there was not, was a phone number. There was no landline in the Beckett property, so if Beckett didn't respond to her cell phone, he couldn't contact her without going there. He certainly wasn't going to run off to find her tonight.

He poured himself a Scotch, to make sure that he couldn't run off to find Beckett, and downed it in one. Then he poured another, and sipped. Neither the first nor the second did anything to lessen his worry over Beckett's likely injuries, since if she'd been put on a week's medical leave she'd done something nasty. Montgomery hadn't said what she'd done, either. Another thing he should have been told.

As the level of the second Scotch slowly dropped, Castle's anger merged with worry, until finally he texted Ryan. What's wrong with Beckett? RC.

Ryan came back quickly, being generally a forgiving sort. Got punched out, hit a table, concussed. Got her arm punched – not broken, bad bruise. Week off. Ryan.

None of the news eased Castle's fretfulness in any way. His phone chirped again. She said she was going off-grid.

Great. She'd switched her phone off. He emitted an unformed growl-howl of annoyance. Had she no care for her own health? She shouldn't be alone after a concussion. He forgot that Ryan had said her father had been called, and that it was extremely unlikely – since he had no reason to believe that Beckett's father was a less good parent than he, Castle – that her father would have left her alone with concussion. Concussion was dangerous.

By Tuesday, Beckett's head was less painful, though not quite pain-free, the large bump had subsided, and her arm was almost useable – if she didn't try to carry anything, move it quickly, or brush it against anything more rigid than a cushion. She'd slept a lot, moved at least twenty feet from the family room to the porch swing seat each day, and done as little as possible. She'd drunk a lot of fluid – amazingly, not only coffee, though there had been plenty of that – but only really eaten lightly, when she was hungry. She hadn't been hungry much: the pain in her head demanding all her energy. Peace and quiet had been exactly what she needed, and she was perfectly certain that she'd be fine by the end of the week.

In fact, she felt so much better that she decided to go into the nearby town to stock up on food that wasn't fish. Specifically, she didn't want to see trout in any form for at least another three months. Pizza would be good, or chicken, or pasta – anything but fish. And she'd get some ice-cream as well, and some fruit, whipped cream and sauce to go with it. Her appetite whetted for the first time in weeks, she wheeled out her Harley and set off for Walton.

She didn't hurry over the rural roads, enjoying the sunshine and taking some care not to over stretch her abused left arm. She also took care to avoid the prevalent potholes: her head didn't exactly hurt and she wasn't keen on changing that for the worse. In Walton, she parked tidily in the supermarket lot and locked the motorbike, then strolled through the streets, ending up at the Townsend Street Market for lunch, and then strolling back down the sidewalk to the Walton Big M supermarket for her shopping.

The supermarket had a decent selection of food that wasn't fish, which was an instant mood-lifter. Beckett wandered through the aisles, examining the contents, and eventually began to collect pizza, pasta, chicken, and a collection of vegetables and fruits. She was just passing through the final stages of her shopping, taking a can of whipped cream and considering the virtues of either chocolate or caramel sauce for her ice cream, which she'd pick up last, when a disturbance near the checkouts caught her attention and she left her cart and hurried that way.

Beckett summed up the situation in fractions of a second, cursed the lack of a phone, grabbed another shopper and ordered them to call 911 in a forceful whisper, and then strode out.

"NYPD!" she yelled at the would-be robber. "Hands in the air!"

"Who the fuck are you?" he yelled back.

"NYPD! Hands in the air!" She moved in closer, instinct and training completely replacing any conception that this would be a bad idea in her current state, reached for her gun – and realised that she didn't have it.

The same wasn't true of the robber. Beckett saw him reaching to his waist, clocked instantly that he did have a gun, and jumped him, heedless of her head and arm.

She wasn't quite fast enough.

He fired as she hit him, though the impact had altered his aim slightly. Still, she'd brought him down. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and two or three other shoppers ran to immobilise him.

Beckett slid off to one side. The terrified cashier ran to her. "Miss, are you okay – oh my God, you're bleeding. He shot you!" So that was why her shoulder hurt so much. She shut her eyes, faintly hearing someone calling for an ambulance. Her head and arm and shoulder hurt so much, again…she slipped out of consciousness.

When she woke, she hurt. Everywhere. She peeled her eyelids open, and wished she hadn't when she met the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room and heard the rather too familiar beeps of the vital signs monitor. Dimly, she realised that there was an IV in her arm.

This wasn't good.

A nurse bustled in. "Miss Beckett?"

"'Tective," she attempted.

"Detective," the nurse amended cheerfully. "You're in the hospital."

"Wha' happ'n?"

"You tackled an armed robber in the supermarket," the nurse said admiringly. "You saved the cashier, but the robber shot you in the shoulder when you took him down. Now you're awake, I'll get the doctor. The local police want to talk to you, too, but doctor first." She bustled off again.

In a few minutes, a short, roundish, tow-headed man appeared, smiling. Beckett didn't think that smiling was appropriate, though she also didn't think being in the hospital again was appropriate.

"Detective Beckett, I'm Dr Carney." He stood at the foot of the bed, where she didn't have to move her head or eyes to see him. "Don't try to talk yet. I'll explain." He flicked a glance at her notes. "You were brought in with a bullet in your left shoulder. Luckily, it missed your scapula and collarbone, but it went into the rotator cuff and lodged there. We've taken it out, and I'll tell you about prognosis in a moment. However, you already had significant bruising to your upper left arm, and on examination you also have an injury to your head which you've worsened." Beckett waggled her fingers feebly in acknowledgement. Couldn't she just go back to sleep, preferably with lots and lots and lots of pain relief? "Now, can you tell me about the arm and head? Since you're a cop, I guess it was in the line of duty?"

"'Es," Beckett forced out. "Arm punched." She took a pain-laden breath, the expansion of her ribs searing through her shoulder. "Jaw punched. Fell. Hit table."

"Well, diving into a thug didn't help either of those injuries. We'll have to keep you in till we're sure you're not concussed again, though I'm amazed that you didn't split your skull hitting that guy today. You've been really, really lucky there. Your arm is going to need some love and care. However, let's talk about your shoulder. I said we'd taken out the bullet, and we've mended the rip in your rotator cuff muscle, but it's not going to be a quick heal. You'll be in a sling for four to six weeks, and there's a lot of physical therapy in your future, Detective. I'm afraid it's not going to be fun."

She gave another feeble acknowledging waggle of her fingers.

"Do you need more pain relief?"

She started to nod, and then stopped, fast.

"Guess so. We'll do what we can, but I don't want to mask any symptoms from the head injury. Now you've woken up, I'll put a local pain relieving injection into your shoulder. Call the nurse if that stops working. Don't move that arm off the pillow it's on, and we'll keep you slightly propped up. It'll help a little." He regarded her sympathetically. "I'm afraid it's concussion protocol for you today as well. The nurse will wake you every two hours. Sorry."

He turned, then turned back. "The police want to talk to you, but that'll have to wait till you're up to it. Right now, you need to rest. Is there anyone we should call?"

"No-o," she sighed. "No' ye'."

"Okay. If you want to change that, let the nurse know."

Beckett's eyes closed before he was out of the door, only reopening when some unkind person stabbed a needle into her already excruciating shoulder. She forgave them as the pain dissolved and she could finally rest.

Every two hours the nurse woke her. Beckett didn't appreciate it, but she didn't complain. In the small hours, the local pain relief wore off, and when she called the night nurse, another injection was administered so that she could sleep again.

In the morning, the nurse woke her again. "Let's see," she said, and ran a battery of tests, all of which Beckett passed. Yawning didn't count against her, fortunately. "Okay, that's good. You can go back to sleep for now, and we'll give you some better pain relief when you wake up. The local police will be here this afternoon to talk to you. You're a hero, you know. The news station wants to interview you too, and the checkout operator wants to thank you."

"Din't do much," Beckett yawned. "Job."

"That's not what they think. Still, you rest up now, and don't fret about a thing."

Beckett gladly took the advice.

After a lunch that Beckett felt would have been substantially improved if it had (one) not contained red Jell-O, which she loathed, (two) not been supplied to her on a tray to be eaten in a hospital bed and (three) if she had not had to manoeuvre around her immobilised left arm; the state police turned up.

Specifically, the chief of the local police turned up, with a fresh-faced officer trailing after him. He grinned widely at Beckett, who managed a smile back.

"Detective Beckett," he boomed, "I'm Chief Tully. I wanna thank you for stepping in when you were up here on vacation. We got your man in custody, and we'll take your statement when you're ready, but you did good work yesterday and we thank you for it."

She made a minimising gesture. "I just did my job," she said. "I didn't really think about it."

"Maybe so," the chief said, "but you didn't even have your gun and you didn't hesitate. That's an example to all our men and women. Likely you saved the store a big loss and Marie – that's the cashier – a beating or worse. Now, the hospital says you were already a bit hurt, so we'll make sure you get home okay and the store's giving you your shopping as a gift – they found your cart and it's all safely stored, but if you hadn't finished you just need to tell them anything else to add." He looked expectantly at her.

"Uh, that's really nice of them but they don't have to…" she began.

"They're gonna be real upset if you don't accept," he said ominously.

"I was only going to add ice cream – vanilla – and chocolate sauce. I'd picked up everything else." She had a thought. "But my Harley's parked in their lot."

"One of us'll bring that home for you. Now, where you staying? Officer Dermot here'll make sure it's back. You can't be riding it with that arm."

Beckett drooped. "How am I going to get back to the city?" she said. "I came up on my Hog."

Tully squirmed slightly. "Well, I might've contacted your captain, and he might've wanted to talk to you about that. Going back, that is. He was pretty pleased about your actions, but he didn't sound so pleased that you got shot."

"I'm not so pleased that I got shot," Beckett noted.

"Understandable," the chief returned, dryly. "Anyway, he says you've to call him."

Beckett drooped some more. "Can't, till they release me. My phone's back at my cabin." She provided the address. "The Hog keys are probably in the locker in here." She produced a pleading smile. "Please take care of it. I've had it since I was a teen."

"Sure will, ma'am," said the baby officer. "I got one of my own. I'll treat it like it was a child."

"Thanks."

"Now," Tully said, "we said we'll get you home too, but before we do that and after our fine doctor releases you, the town radio station wants to interview you and I need to take your statement. I guess from that IV in your arm that you're not going anyplace today, so we'll leave all that till tomorrow. But it's a bit boring being here with nothing to do and no-one to see, so if you'd like, Officer Dermot'll go get you some magazines or a book from the library."

"That'd be great," Beckett said thankfully. "I'm fond of crime novels, so any of those would be fine. Thanks."

"Off you go, Dermot," Tully ordered. "Thank you, Detective. I'll be seeing you tomorrow, I guess. Just come by as soon as they let you out."

"Will do, Chief," Beckett said. "Thanks for stopping by."

"Seeya," he said, and ambled out.

Around half an hour later, during which Beckett had become mind-numbingly bored of staring at the wall and/or the monitors, unable to move her left arm from its pillowed position, Officer Dermot marched back in, saluted, to Beckett's horror, and then smiled. "I got you some books, ma'am. Mrs Tousa at the library said you could have as many as you liked, just say to the nurse if you want anything different." He noticed Beckett's questioning gaze. "Marie's her niece." All became clear.

"Thank you. I was just about to go crazy staring at the walls."

"You're welcome, ma'am." He opened his mouth, then closed it, then wriggled. "Uh, ma'am?"

"Yes? Call me Beckett."

"Can't do that, ma'am. My mom would have my ass for disrespecting a detective and a woman."

Beckett knew she'd never overcome the power of Officer Dermot's mom. "Okay. What d'you want to know?"

"Uh, I've not…how could you go for him like that when you didn't even have your gun?"

Beckett stared at the young officer. That was a place she didn't necessarily want to go. "Um," she said, which wasn't a good answer. "Training, I guess. Manhattan's a lot more violent than out here, so you get more used to it."

She didn't say I forgot I didn't have my gun. That wouldn't be reassuring and it would get back to Montgomery, who would not be impressed. Nor did she say sometimes you just have to put yourself on the line. Protect and serve. She didn't think there's no-one to stop me, but she should have. Because she wouldn't have thrown her unarmed self at an armed robber if Castle had been right behind her in the line of fire. She'd never have risked his life. But he wasn't here, he wouldn't be here, and the only life she'd been risking had been her own, which... didn't really have much purpose except protect and serve the public.

"Wow," Dermot said. "Weren't you scared?"

"I didn't really have time to think about it," Beckett lied. She had had time. She'd just…used the adrenaline kick as fuel for her actions. She'd fought, not fled.

"Wow," he said again. "I really hope I'd do the same."

"I think you'd really want to have your gun, if it happened again," Beckett said briskly. "I'd recommend it." She smiled beautifully.

"Thank you, ma'am. See you tomorrow for your statement." Dermot took the hint and left.

Left in peace, Beckett turned to the pile of books that Dermot had brought her. It was…eclectic. Old-fashioned noir – The Maltese Falcon – joined classic English crime – Strong Poison and Murder on the Orient Express – to modern works by Connelly and Paterson.

And Richard Castle. Heat Wave.

Of-fucking-course.

She supposed that she should thank her lucky stars that Officer Dermot and Mrs Tousa hadn't made the connection between Detective Beckett and Detective Nikki Heat. Probably the news hadn't left Manhattan.

She put Heat Wave to the very bottom of the pile, with the spine facing away from her, and tried valiantly not to think about Castle at all. Despite concentrating hard on The Maltese Falcon, she failed. She put the book down, turned her face towards the wall, and shut her eyes.

Tears couldn't leak out of closed eyes.

Shortly, she fell asleep again, aided by the painkillers the nurse had dispensed when she'd cleared her expression enough to ask; woke two hours later, still pain-free. She didn't imagine that would continue for long, but she could try once more to lose herself in noir literature.

She got through to late afternoon, when a cheerful, muscular physical therapist arrived. Beckett did not feel cheerful about him at all. She loathed physical therapy with a deadly hatred that was, she felt, entirely justified.

"Hey, Detective Beckett," he grinned. "Dr Carney sent me along to see you. Time to talk about that shoulder of yours."

Beckett just knew she wasn't going to like the next half hour, and she was dead right. She'd have to wear a sling for four to six weeks, she had to ice her shoulder four times a day minimum, and she wasn't allowed to push, pull, lift or do anything at all with it. No driving. Hell. She'd be useless. And then there'd be physical therapy after that.

This was not going to be any fun at all.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated.

To anyone in the path of Storm Henri, stay safe.