Homecoming: Chapter 7
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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3:21 p.m. East Coast time, Monday Afternoon, April 23, 2012, At LaGuardia Airport in New York City
Willie Crockett walks down the small, portable ladder ramp that has been rolled out to the small Cessna aircraft. As desired, the pilot has been able to get his two passengers to New York City in near record time. Crockett has expressed his thanks – and requested the pilot to remain close by for a return to the west coast.
Scooter Fuqua walks down the ramp behind the large black man, his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Waiting for both men at the bottom of the ramp is a small black SUV. The driver exits the vehicle, handing the keys to Crockett.
"Thank you," Crockett offers the man, and then hands the keys to Scooter as the original driver walks toward a second car – a white sedan – that is parked next to the SUV, without a backward glance. The second car speeds away on the airplane taxi area as Scooter slides in behind the wheel of the SUV.
He pulls up the navigation map and plugs in the first of four addresses that Crockett had provided to him during the latter portion of the flight. He guns the ignition and pulls the vehicle away while Crockett, who now sits in the back seat, punches in digits on his mobile phone. Seconds later, he gets his answer.
"This is Richard Castle," Castle answers to the unknown number.
"This is Willie," Crockett tells him. "Save this new number. It's what I will use to stay in contact with you while I am here."
"You've landed?" Castle asks, motioning Kate Beckett to his side. Castle and Beckett are back at Martha's loft comparing notes and ideas. The couple needed to get away from the eyes and ears of the precinct. Castle puts the call on his speakerphone so that Kate can listen in.
"I have," Crockett replies. "I assume Miss Beckett is close by?"
"Oh, so now I'm Miss Beckett?" Kate answers half-heartedly, clearly an attempt at much-needed levity at the moment.
"For now, yes," Crockett surprises her. She remembers what she knows of the man, what she has seen personally of him, and she remembers the 'switch' that Detective Jennifer Blackard has told her that this man is capable of flipping in an instant. She quickly recognizes that this is one dangerous man that has come to the east coast, and exhales nervously without realizing it.
"What do we know so far?" Crockett asks.
Castle allows Kate to take the lead on bringing Carlos' right-hand man up to speed.
"Well, as you know, Alexis was taken outside the building here, and –"
"You are back at Mr. Castle's mother's home?" Crockett asks.
"Yes, we did as much as we could at the precinct, and since neither Castle nor I are official police offers there –"
"Got it," Willie interrupts. "Again, what do we know?"
"Alexis was taken," Kate continues, "and since this is a public area with surveillance cameras, we were able to identify the car that was used. We followed the car – using the cameras – through the city and found where the car stopped at a bank in Washington Heights."
"And you reached a dead-end at that point," Crockett tells the duo, knowingly.
"Uh . . . yes, as a matter of fact, we did," Castle interjects.
"And you brought in a perp from that location who seemingly knows nothing," Crockett predicts. He smiles when Castle and Kate confirm his assumptions.
"That's right – eerily correct, Willie, if I say so myself," Kate allows.
"Your mistake, Miss Beckett," Crockett begins, "is that you are thinking like the stellar cop that Mr. Carlos suggests you have been in your prior life. What is needed at this time, however, is not a cop."
Kate's mind immediately goes back to a conversation that she and Richard Castle had some five hours earlier today, when Castle's first instinct was not to call the police, but instead to call Sam Carlos and request Willie Crockett specifically.
"Years ago, there was show on television," Castle had told her hours ago after hanging up with Sam Carlos. "It was called It Takes a Thief. The whole premise was that there are some things that a police officer can't do, some crimes too difficult to solve because a cop thinks like a cop. But sometimes to catch a thief, it takes a thief. You told me that Sam told you as much when he talked you out of the rabbit hole all those years ago. He told you that you weren't willing to think what was necessary, to suspect what was necessary, to do what was necessary to catch your mother's killer. Well, that's what's happening now. You've called our friends at the 12th, and they are going to think like cops. That's great. But this is my baby girl we are talking about. With the cops doing what they do, I need someone who will think like a criminal. Someone who won't be afraid to confront certain possibilities."
"And with Willie being an ex-cop on top of that –" Kate had begun.
"We get the best – or worst – of both worlds" Castle had concluded, finishing her thought.
These are the thoughts going through Kate's mind – and unbeknownst to her – Richard Castle's mind as well as they listen to Crockett.
"From the plane, I also was able to see the moment Miss Castle was abducted –"
"How were you able to do that?" Castle asks.
"Please, Mr. Castle, give me some credit," Willie replies easily, chuckling. "I saw the same car you two did. Dark sedan, four perps. You followed them forward. As I figured you would. That's how the police are trained to think. I, however, put myself into the mind of the perp. And the first thing I want to know about the perps is not where they went. I want to know where they came from."
"Why does that matter?" Castle asks, partially out of concern for finding his daughter, and partially just his writer's curiosity kicking in.
"It matters because if I can follow their car backwards, I know where they met. Who else might have been there," Crockett replies. "More importantly, it allows me to use those same city cameras to backtrack each one of our perps back to where they came from before meeting up."
"My God," Castle exclaims, as Kate knowingly – and admiringly – nods her head in understanding. She realizes that she, too, would have thought of this . . . only days later. And right now, time matters. They don't have days.
"You know where they live," Kate speaks softly.
"I do," Willie acknowledges.
"And you are headed there now," Castle anticipates.
"I am," Willie acknowledges again, as he watches Scooter navigate traffic out of LaGuardia onto the freeway, headed south further into Queens.
"Let us help you," Castle asks quickly, his mind now racing. "There are three of us, we can do this much faster together."
"No," Crockett replies, stunning both the ex-author and ex-detective. Both are silent, searching for the right words for a few seconds, before Kate Beckett finally speaks.
"What do you mean, No?" she asks their friend. "Time is ticking, and –"
"I am your best option right now," Willie interrupts, "and you and Mr. Castle will just slow me down."
"Willie, you don't know that," Castle interjects. "This is Alexis we are talking about. There is nothing I am not willing to do in order to get her back."
"For your sake, I am glad that is not true, Mr. Castle," Willie tells him. "Then you would be like me. But you are not like me. That is a good thing. Let us keep it that way, shall we?"
His words are disarming, as Kate begins wondering if they are talking with Willie Crockett or with Sam Carlos. For the first time, she recognizes the tight alignment between the two men.
"Richard . . . Kate . . ." Crockett begins, getting both of their attentions with the more personal approach. He speaks very softly.
"Sam told me to get her back," he begins. "He also told me that the kid gloves are off."
Those words send a shudder down the spines of both of his friends, even though they know this may be the best approach.
"He told me to send a message," Crockett continues. "Let me do my job. Let me get your daughter back. I will check in with you. When you have information, get it to me. But stay out of my way. This is way, way out of your comfort zone. And I want us to still be friends when this is done. I am here. I will call you after my first couple of meetings."
"Meetings?" Kate asks.
"Goodbye, my friends," Crockett tells them, disconnecting the call. He quickly dials a second number and is rewarded after two rings.
"Go," the original driver of the SUV Crockett now travels in answers.
"You have your instructions," Crockett tells the man, reiterating instructions that Crockett had sent to the man while still airborne.
"It is done," the driver tells him. "There will be a red SUV, no plates, in the garage waiting for you."
"Excellent," Crockett tells him, glancing at his watch. It is now 3:35pm.
"I should be there within the hour," Crockett continues. He disconnects and then dials a third number. On the first ring, Sam Carlos answers.
"You have landed?" Carlos asks.
"Yes sir," Crockett answers. "Enroute to my first of four stops."
"Four?" Carlos asks. "You found all four?"
"Yes sir," Crockett repeats. "I will meet with each of them, get the information I need, and send the appropriate message."
"Keep me posted, my friend," Carlos tells him, disconnecting the call. He then leans back in the pillows of the large sofa in his living room, glancing out at the tall trees outside the large, expansive window. Immediately, he places a call to Richard Castle.
"Hello Sam," Castle answers. "We just hung up with Willie."
"Excellent," Carlos tells him. "We shall have your daughter back soon, Richard. I won't insult you by telling you not to worry. I will say that I have a high confidence that Willie will bring you good news sooner than you might expect."
"But he won't let us help him," an exasperated Kate Beckett tells her old friend via speakerphone.
"You cannot help him, Katie," Carlos tells her. "Let him do his job."
Carlos takes a long sip of scotch from the tumbler in his hand before continuing.
"And I know you, Katie," he tells her, getting to the reason for this particular phone call.
"I know you are – even now – thinking of ways to insert yourselves into this. I warn you, it will not help Alexis Castle. And it may end up hurting either of you. Believe me when I say this. I am not telling you to do nothing. You're smart. Work this through your official channels. You have official contacts. There are things that the cops can do for you Katie. And there are things the mayor can help you with, Richard. But stay away from Willie. You do not want to be associated with the coming carnage."
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4:04 p.m. East Coast time, Monday Afternoon, April 23, 2012, Outside a home in South Jamaica, Queens, New York
The small, quaint neighborhood is quiet, belying the potential violence that is about to assault the place. Scooter Fuqua sits nervously in the car as Willie Crockett exits the vehicle. The large man walks confidently and casually up to the front door. He is dressed in black jeans, a black t-shirt and a black bomber jacket. He wears sunglasses, a cap with his trademark toothpick dangling from his lips. Black gloves complete the ensemble.
He takes a deep breath as he takes the four steps up to the home, two at a time, before launching into the doorway with a massive kick. He takes a large handgun from his shoulder harness and walks into the house, whistling.
A frightened woman rushes from the kitchen, freezing in terror at the sight before her. He raises the weapon, pointing it at her head.
"I'm looking for Nick Williams," he tells her.
"He is not here," she babbles, shaking fiercely as she holds on to the table in the small dining room just off the kitchen.
"Do you have any children?" he asks.
"No," she replies.
"Anybody else here? Do not lie to me."
"No," she cries, tears now streaming down her face. She knows her husband is involved in some shady things. That they have come to her front door still surprises her.
"Give me your phone," he tells her. "Now. Do not make me ask again."
She quickly moves – on rubbery legs – back to the kitchen to retrieve the mobile phone on the counter.
"Call your husband," he tells her.
With fumbling fingers, she scrolls through contacts to find her husband. She is ready to dial when Crockett stops her.
"What is your name, Mrs. Williams?"
"Linda," she tells him. "My name is Linda. Please don't –"
"Stop talking, Linda, and dial the number," he tells her. It rings twice before Nick Williams answers. As he answers, Crockett takes the phone away from his wife. He notices it is a Facetime call. He nods in satisfaction.
"Hey babe, what's going . . . Hey, who are you?" Nick answers, alarmed at the man in all black that has his wife's phone.
In one motion, Willie Crockett pulls Linda to him, putting the woman in a choke hold with his massive left arm and hand as he talks to the husband in his right hand. He makes sure that he can see his wife struggle and hear his wife's screams as Crockett denies her the air her lungs suddenly crave.
"You have someone I want," Crockett tells them man. "You have twenty-four hours."
He hangs the call up, releasing Linda Williams who falls to the floor coughing, trying desperately to breathe in air far too quickly.
"He takes a small bottle out of his jacket, with a small white cloth. Pouring some of the contents to the cloth, he bends down, now squatting in front of the woman.
"Linda, I am sorry for what I am about to do," he tells her. "But a message must be sent."
He quickly places the cloth over her face. Naturally she struggles, but within seconds her arms fall limply to her side.
He places the bottle back in his jacket pocket, and intentionally drops the cloth on the floor. Forensics will detect the drug and realize that Linda Williams has not been killed, but in fact was rendered unconscious and kidnapped.
He picks the woman up, easily carrying her in two arms to the doorway. The door is still wide open, having been busted in by Crockett previously.
"I'm sorry, Linda," he repeats again, knowing what he is about to do. After all, a message must be sent.
Once at the doorway, he lays the unconscious woman down at the entry to her home. He retrieves his handgun from his shoulder harness again and fires five shots back into the house. That will alert neighbors. He wants an audience.
Bending over, he grabs the unconscious Linda Williams by the back of her blouse collar. With a firm grip on the back of her collar, he unceremoniously drags the unconscious woman down the four steps, her calves and ankles banging against the stone steps. He knows this looks bad. But a message must be sent.
He drags the unconscious Linda Williams along the ground, all the way from her doorway to the waiting car. He opens the back door and tosses the woman into the car, much like a rag doll, before shutting the door and then opening the front passenger door and sliding in.
The look of terror on Scooter Fuqua's face almost brings a smile to his face. It is something he will share with Sam Carlos at a later time. True to Carlos' suspicion, the young man is capable, but not ready.
"Let's go," Crockett tells him. "Next stop."
The next stop is some ten minutes away in Southwest Queens. During the drive, Crockett is quiet. His satchel sits on the passenger floor, where Scooter had placed it while Crockett was inside the Williams home.
He reaches down into the satchel, examining the tools that he had called ahead from the plane to have waiting for him. There is a large hook used to hang items on the exterior of a house. There is a hammer with nails. He smiles, thinking of this next visit.
Minutes later, they pull up in front of a somewhat larger and nicer home.
"Stay here," he instructs Scooter. It is a totally unnecessary command. The young man wants no part of the violence he can only imagine is getting ready to happen.
This time, Crockett exits with the satchel and his handgun in plain sight. It has been almost ten minutes. The likelihood that Nick Williams did not call his other partners in the crime – or their ultimate boss – is slim to none. He walks up toward the front door ready for resistance. He is not disappointed.
As he gets to the steps, the door flies open, and a large man stands in the doorway with a shotgun. Before the man can use the weapon, however, Crockett fires the large handgun. The bullet smashes into the knee of this house's resident, who crumples to the ground, screaming. Crockett bends over to pick up the dropped shotgun as he enters the house.
"Keep screaming," he tells the man as he steps over him.
A terrified woman stands back in the living room, standing protectively in front of a small boy of maybe eight or nine years. Crockett nods his head in understanding as he addresses the woman.
"Who else is here? Do not lie to me."
Lying is the last thing this woman will do to the frightening figure in front of her.
"No one," she replies. "Just Jeremy and I."
"Jeremy is your son, there?" he asks.
"Yes," she replies.
"What is your husband's name?" he asks.
"Frank," she replies. "Frank Marshall."
"Thank you. Take Jeremy into your bedroom," he tells her. "Lock the door. Stay there for at least five minutes. If you come out sooner, I promise you someone else will raise your boy."
The warning works, as the woman quickly scrambles into the bedroom. He hears the door shut, and assumes she is smart enough to take his advice and lock the door. He turns back toward the front door. Frank has found his courage, and is dragging himself along the floor to protect his wife and son. Crockett gives the man stones for such courage.
He takes a few steps and reaches Frank, bending down to pick the man up.
"Now Frank," Crockett begins, speaking just loudly enough over the man's whining to be heard. "I don't have a lot of time. My lack of time is your fault, by the way. Keep that in mind. You took a young girl today. Where did you take her."
Something in Willie Crockett's voice – along with the shattered kneecap – tells Frank Marshall this man is serious.
"To the bank, in the Heights . . . Washington Heights," Frank tells him. Willie nods, as this lines up with what Kate has already told him.
"Where did they take her after this, Frank?" Willie asks him.
"I don't know man, I don't know, I swear it . . . I swear it man, I don't know," Frank babbles.
Crockett stares hard at the man for a few seconds, then a few more. The smell of urine flowing down his leg onto the floor below fills the room.
"I believe you, Frank," Crockett tells him. "But that doesn't help me. Not at all. Do you have a name to share with me?
"I can't man," Frank cries. "He will kill me."
"And do you think I am here to play cards, Frank?" Willie smiles. It is the smile that does it. Willie can see it coming. It has happened before. He tosses Frank backward just in time as Frank retches his last meal onto the floor, screaming as he crumples to the ground on his shattered leg.
For a brief instant, Willie reconsiders his next step, knowing that a young boy is in the back of the house. A young boy who can hear what is going on. A young boy who can hear the screams of his father. But then Willie thinks of Alexis Castle. It makes his decision all too easy.
Crockett walks to the wounded man, and as he reaches down to lift him once again, Frank Marshall begins pleading.
"Please . . . I have a son," he tells him.
"I know," Crockett tells him evenly. "And Richard Castle has a daughter."
He lifts Marshall easily, offering the man a smashing fist to the mouth. Followed by a second punch to the stomach. He pulls out his handgun again, this time firing into the foot of the already wounded leg of his prey.
He drops the man to the ground, and drags him – by the foot of his remaining good leg – to the front door. He drops him there, as the man screams.
"Simmons!" Marshall hollers. "It was Simmons. Vulcan Simmons. Please man –"
"Shut up," Crockett tells him as he reaches into the satchel and pulls out the hammer and two large nails.
"Noooooooo!" Frank Marshall screams in terror, anticipating what is coming.
Crockett ignores him as he stands at the posts outside on the porch, and hammers the two nails into the post. He then retrieves the large hook and hangs the hook on the two nails. He pulls downward on the hook, testing the weight before nodding his head.
He steps back into the doorway to retrieve Frank Marshall, lifting the man easily and hanging him limply – by the back of his shirt – on the hook outside his doorway on the front porch.
"If I don't have Miss Castle in my hands in twenty-three hours and thirty minutes, I will come back," Crockett tells him. "And I won't be as nice tomorrow."
With that, Willie Crockett walks calmly to the car, ignoring the neighbors on their porches, staring out of their windows. He slides into the front seat, and buckles his seat belt as Scooter pulls the SUV away.
"To the garage," Crockett tells him. "We have to switch vehicles and drop Mrs. Williams back there off as well."
He closes his eyes, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He thinks of Linda Williams in the back seat, the bruises he knows that have formed on her ankles and on her calves. For just a moment he begins to reconsider the next visit. He glances over his shoulders at the still-unconscious woman. He takes his mobile phone out, and pulls up photos. He flips to a very specific picture. It is a picture of he and Carlos, with Richard Castle, Kate Beckett, Jennifer Blackard and Alexis Castle. He enlarges the photograph until the smiling face of young Alexis is all he can see.
Closing the image, he stares ahead, his focus now re-established, now thinking only of their next stop in Brooklyn. He knows the resistance there is likely to be even greater – and more effective. He smiles, whistling as Scooter accelerates the SUV.
"Remember, drop me off a block from the house," Crockett tells the young man. "They will be expecting us. I will be approaching from the back for this particular visit."