Homecoming: Chapter 8
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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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4:45 p.m. East Coast time, Monday Afternoon, April 23, 2012, In Brooklyn, New York
They have been driving now for about five minutes, having just entered into Brooklyn when Scooter Fuqua pulls into a public parking garage. Without a word, Fuqua puts the car into park, leaving the SUV engine running. He exits the car and walks toward the red Buick sedan, which is parked in the spot promised, while Willie Crockett opens his door and steps out, arms lifted high as he stretches his massive frame. He then turns and opens the back door, and gently retrieves Linda Williams.
He carries her in both arms to a white SUV that is parked next to the red sedan. The back door opens, and he gently hands the unconscious woman to the two men in the back seat.
"Keep her supervised, and treat her gently," he tells the men. "I will know of it if she is treated badly."
"Yes, sir," one of the men responds.
"And get the word out," Crockett continues. "Let everyone know the reason I am here is because of Vulcan Simmons. Let them know the reason I was sent here was because of his actions."
The respect – and borderline fear – on the faces of the three men in the car brings a smile of satisfaction to Crockett's face. A smile that just ever so slightly pushes all three men over that border line into fear territory.
Sammy Falco runs the loan shark business in Queens, with ties into Manhattan, of course. When Sam Carlos called Falco late this morning with a 'friendly request' that Falco provide some local cover to assist in an assignment of one of Carlos' men, Falco immediately became concerned that the crime lord from the Bay Area was making a local play.
When Falco was told who would be visiting his city, he had thrown everyone out of his office. He had spent half an hour pacing back and forth, wondering what this unwarranted intrusion from the west coast would mean – especially an intrusion by this man.
So, it was men from Falco's organization who were in contact with Crockett on the plane, who met Crockett at the airport, and who are now providing a new vehicle for the large man. Falco had also placed a few phone calls to others on the shady side of business in the New York city area, informing them of Carlos' phone call and request. All were just as concerned, as Carlos has always made it plain to all on his side of the ledger that his only interests were in the Bay Area. That Carlos' right-hand man is now here in New York raising havoc is – to put it mildly – more than concerning.
Crockett telling these men about Simmons has a single purpose. He wants Simmons to know he is coming, and he wants Simmons running to the ground. He knows from experience that a man is hiding puts all plans on hold, and right now, whatever plans Simmons has for Alexis Castle need to be placed on hold.
"And you are going after Simmons now?" one of the men in the car asks, watching as Crockett carries his bag he retrieved from the SUB to the red sedan.
"Absolutely not," Crockett smiles. "I still have two more visits to make."
"They are not stupid," the man replies. "They will know you are coming."
"It won't matter," Crockett tells him, still smiling, as he reapproaches the white SUV. "Now, the other package I asked for?"
The driver in the white SUV rolls his window down, reaching across the passenger seat and retrieving a large bag.
"All here," the driver tells Crockett. "Good luck."
"Thank you, I appreciate that," Crockett acknowledges. Although fearsome and effective, Crockett is no fool. He will not get overconfident. He knows that much of this success is based on timing, and fear. But he also knows that just a little bit of the wrong kind of luck, and an assignment like this can go horribly sideways very quickly.
Most important is getting Alexis back. Next is not getting killed. But right behind that is the knowledge that he needs to pull this off without starting a cross-country gangland war. And such a consequence is not as far-fetched as it may seem. Those on Sam Carlos' side of the ledger everywhere all understand that the difference between peace and war is often just one bad decision. A decision that someone takes personally. That is how Sam Carlos wants his counterparts on the East Coast to view the kidnapping of Alexis Castle . . . as a bad decision taken personally.
"Remember," Crockett tells the men as he walks back to the red sedan. "I want Simmons to know I am coming."
Crockett slides into the car without glancing back at the wide-eyed expressions of the men in the white car; men who are wondering about this frightening man in black who has no fear at all of Vulcan Simmons.
For his part, Crockett now implements the next phase of the plan to put the squeeze on Simmons, now that he knows who he is dealing with. He is after Simmons. He has just – unofficially – put others of the criminal element on the clock to find Simmons. Now it is time to bring the police into the chase. He places a call to Kate Beckett and is rewarded after only a single ring.
"Willie?" Kate asks.
"Miss Beckett," he begins. "The man you are looking for is Vulcan Simmons. I suspect you know who he is. You weren't gone from New York that long. Let your friends in blue know."
He hangs up before Kate can respond, issuing instructions to Scooter about their next stop.
"Remember, let me out, and then say put," Crockett tells him. "I will be back."
Crockett waits until they are on the next block, one street behind the Henderson residence – his next stop – before placing the call. He reaches into the bag for a separate mobile phone and dials 911.
Seconds later, he is on the phone with an emergency responder.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"My girlfriend . . . she just fell unconscious, hit her head . . . man, there is much blood," Willie cries into the phone. His performance brings a shocked look to Scooter Fuqua's face, almost causing Crockett to break character.
"Please come quickly," he begs, giving the Henderson address.
He then steps out of the car, bringing a small bag of tools. He pops the hood of the red Buick sedan, and pretends to be looking for something in the engine area, fiddling with his fingers while listening closely for the sirens.
Two minutes later, he is rewarded with the sound of sirens one street over. He leaves the car hood up, and breaks into a slow jog, running between the two houses on the street where his car is parked. He reaches the back yard area of the two houses on either side of him, now looking in front of him at the back yard of his target house.
"No fence," he smiles, shaking his head. This will make it all too easy. He can hear the commotion at the front door, with and angry Gary Henderson wanting to know why police officers are at his home. It allows him to walk up to the back yard, approaching the back door. He reaches inside his bag, retrieving a key lock set. Ten seconds later, the back door is open, and Willie Crockett enters into the kitchen area. He calmly looks around and finds a pantry door. Smiling, he opens the pantry and steps in, closing the door behind him.
He is expecting the police to want to look around. He knows they will quickly determine it was a crank call. They might interview a few neighbors. He will have to be patient.
He hears – minutes later – screaming as Gary Henderson yells at his girlfriend. Evidently the police have left.
"What the hell, Vanessa! What's going on? Why'd you call the cops, for crying out loud?"
"I didn't call anyone, asshole," the equally-angry woman replies. "Shit, I've been sitting here with your lazy ass for the last twenty minutes. Does this have something to do with Nick's call? With the woman you took?"
"How should I know?" he asks. "If you didn't call 911, then who did?"
"That would be me," Willie Crockett replies, announcing his presence from the kitchen. He stands as an imposing figure, brandishing the largest handgun either Gary or Vanessa have ever seen.
"It's you," Gary almost whispers.
"Yeah, it's me," Crockett tells him. "Now why don't we all come sit down here in the kitchen and have a little talk."
"Why don't you go screw yourself!" Vanessa screams at the large man.
"Door Number Two it is," Crockett remarks.
Crockett doesn't hesitate. Her own words tell Willie Crockett that this woman – this Vanessa – knew what her husband was doing. It makes things all too easy. He casually reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a silencer. He calmly attaches the silencer to the handgun, now drawing pleas from the couple.
"Now wait a second," Gary Henderson tells the larger man. "You're right, you're right, we can just sit and –"
The weapon whispers once, pounding the first bullet into Vanessa's chest. The impact knocks her backwards onto the floor as Henderson screams, tripping and falling over as he tries to back away from Crockett who now is walking directly toward them. Two feet away from the couple, Crockett removes his sunglasses, giving the man a look into hard, steeled eyes.
The second whisper enters an inch to the right of the first bullet hole into Vanessa's chest. The third enters an inch below the second hole. Crockett stares down at a pair of lifeless eyes, then moves on to Henderson himself.
Glancing around the kitchen area, he scopes out a notepad on the refrigerator. He nods his head and turns and fires three quick silenced rounds into Henderson's chest as well. Moving back to retrieve the notepad, he takes out a pen from his jacket and writes a single word on a sheet of the notepad paper.
TICK!
He rips the sheet off, the writes another single word on a second sheet of paper.
TOCK!
Now he searches the drawers in the kitchen until he finds what he is looking for. A roll of scotch tape. Whistling, he takes the first note and tapes it to Henderson's forehead. Then he tapes the second to Vanessa's forehead. He takes his camera out and snaps a picture of the dead couple. Picking up after himself, he glances around, and then bends to grab both Henderson and Vanessa by the collar. Effortlessly he drags both to the front door. He drops Henderson for a moment, and opens the front door.
He picks Henderson up again, and drags both – by the collar – out the front door and into the small front yard, almost at the street. Casually, he walks back into the house, catching a terrified neighbor who is staring out an open window, mouth agape.
"Call 911, if you would, please," Crockett yells at the woman as he enters back into the house, heading straight to the kitchen. He turns a burner on the stove on, and grabs a piece of paper from the notepad. He catches the paper on fire, and then turns and lights the small curtain to the kitchen window on fire. He moves to the small dining area and lights the fabric to a chair on fire. Returning to the stove, he grabs a second sheet of paper, lights it, and walks to the living room – where the front door is still open – and sets the burning page onto the cloth sofa.
Satisfied, he walks straight to the back door – without a backward glance – and walks out the door into the backyard and onward between the two homes behind the Henderson residence. Getting to the sedan, he closes the hood, and gets in the car.
"Everything okay, Mr. Crockett?" Scooter Fuqua asks. He can see the first cloud of smoke rising behind the house that he has parked in front of.
"Everything is fine, Scooter," Crockett tells him. "Last one. Let's go."
Crockett reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He pulls up the photograph he took of the dead couple, and sends the picture to a second phone number, knowing the response that he is going to generate.
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5:08 p.m. East Coast time, Monday Afternoon, April 23, 2012, In Queens, New York
"Dear God," Sammy Falco exclaims as he views the image that has just arrived on his phone.
"Is this man insane?" Falco asks aloud, gazing at the two dead people in the photograph. He cannot make out who they are. Their faces are covered with a piece of paper. Their chests are a pool of blood. Lying side by side, the message taped to their foreheads is unmistakable.
Tick Tock!
"Who does he think he is, coming here and playing John Wayne like this?" Falco screams to the room at large.
"I think he is telling us time is ticking, boss," Raymond Martinez mutters under his breath as he glances at the image over his boss' shoulder.
"I know what it means Ray!" Sammy thunders. While others in the room step back, Martinez stands next to his boss. He knows the man's temper. He has seen it many times before.
"Is there any word from Simmons?" Sammy asks aloud.
"Not yet, boss," Raymond answers.
"Probably hiding low like the little bitch that he is," Falco remarks angrily. "I knew if he was pushed, he'd back down. How many of his guys is this now? Two?"
"No sir," Raymond replies. "This is the third. Nick was first. Word on the street is that he left Frank Marshall shot up and hanging on the front porch of his own damn house."
"Damn," Sammy exclaims. "Three men in less than an hour."
"At least Nick and Frank are alive," Raymond adds. "Frank a bit less so, from what Jimmy said."
"All this for one broad?" Sammy asks, perplexed. "Who is this girl?"
"Doesn't matter does it, boss?" Raymond asks, with more of a statement. "She's important to someone, and that's what matters."
"Not just any someone," Sammy reminds him. "We need to find this girl, and fast. Right now this guy is cleaning Vulcan's house. But I know this Carlos by reputation. If he doesn't get results fast, he might spread the love, so to speak."
"Not a whole lotta love there, boss," Raymond chuckles nervously.
"I know that, idiot," Sammy replies. Raymond ignores the insult. He knows it is his boss letting off steam. He also knows that his boss is right. They need to find this girl, whoever she is, wherever she is. And right now, the only one with answers is Vulcan Simmons.
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5:17 p.m. East Coast time, Monday Afternoon, April 23, 2012, On the docks in New York City
Vulcan Simmons stands next to the small building, some fifty yards from the waiting helicopter. He is getting ready to take a quick flight out onto the water to inspect his 'property', as he refers to Alexis Castle. But right now, he is on the phone reading the riot act to an unknown entity. He has a phone number, and he knows the voice he is speaking to is distorted.
None of that matters right now.
What matters right now is that he was not told the full extent of the story. And now his organization is feeling the pinch – both from some unknown threat in black, as well as some of the other crime families in the city who are getting nervous.
"What didn't you tell me?" Simmons asks again. "This is no ordinary celebrity snatching. I've dealt with Beckett before. And by extension her little puppy dog author. Neither had the firepower – or will to use such firepower – before. So, what's new? What have you not told me?"
"There is nothing you need to be concerned with Simmons," the distorted voice tells him. "You have your half a million dollars, and in forty-eight hours, you will have your additional million, as agreed."
"In forty-eight hours, I may not have an organization!" Simmons bellows. "And that might be the good news!"
"Mr. Simmons, you knew the risk when you accepted –"
"No!" he thunders. "I knew of no such risk. I have one man whose wife has been kidnapped. I have another man who was left hanging – like a slab of meat! And now I am hearing of potentially another man's who house was burned to the ground. No little girl is worth this heat. This is not police kind of heat. This is personal to someone."
"Ah, Mr. Simmons, our little girls usually are personal to us," the distorted voice laughs. "Keep your cool. Put your men into hiding for two days. Surely the exalted Vulcan Simmons can stand the heat for two days."
With that, the call disconnects, leaving a fuming Vulcan Simmons on the wharf. He resists the urge to hurl his phone at the nearest exterior wall. Instead, he tightens his coat about him as he starts walking toward the chopper. As he walks, he twirls his fingers in the air at the pilot, signaling wheels up.
His anger is building. On the way to the docks, one of his informants had called him and told him that the police had shown up at his home. Another informant had called to tell him that the cops had also shown up at one of his places of business. Normally, police heat would be annoying. Today, however, with his organization being slowly and methodically hunted, and the police on his tail . . . well, nothing about today is normal.
He climbs into the chopper, fastening himself in. A minute later, he is airborne, over the water and headed out into the Atlantic toward his prize.
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6:08 p.m. East Coast time, Monday Afternoon, April 23, 2012, at Martha Rodger's Loft
Richard Castle holds the remote control out, pointed toward the television as he turns the television off. He and Kate Beckett have just watched the first segment of the 6pm news broadcast. Minutes before 6 o'clock, both had received a text from Willie Crockett.
WILLIE: Check out the 6pm news
Now, television off, the couple sits quietly on the sofa trying to absorb and process what they have just seen and heard.
So far, the media knows that there are confrontations occurring in the criminal world in the city that are spilling over into the streets. A kidnapped wife, a brutalized man left hanging on his porch, and a couple – a man and woman – who were killed gangland style with three shots to the chest and left outside while their house burned down. The survivors linked the events to the kidnapping of a young woman earlier in the day.
Adding two plus two and getting four, the media now sits on the street downstairs outside 425 Broome Street, hoping for an interview with Richard Castle regarding his kidnapped daughter. True to form, the media have obtained and shown the actual footage of Alexis' abduction.
The ringing phone interrupts the silence. It rings a few times before it registers with either.
"Willie!" Richard Castle almost yells into the phone after answering the call. He caught it on the fourth ring, right before it would have gone to voicemail.
"Please tell me something good," Castle implores, and the large man finds his heart going out to his new friend from the West Coast.
"Things are progressing, Mr. Castle," Crockett tells him, still in official mode.
"I'll say," Kate adds. "We just watched the news. Three visits in one afternoon?"
"Actually, four," Willie chuckles, sending shivers down the spines of his friends on the other end of the conversation.
"I'm guessing my latest venture didn't make the news just yet," he continues.
"Do I want to know?" Castle asks.
"All you need to know is that the nest has been disturbed and a lot of birds are flocking there now," Willie replies.
"He sounds like you," Kate laughs bitterly. It's been a long day. In seconds, she relives the past twenty-four or so hours. It began with a welcome home party for Castle at this very loft, minus her own father who is still out of town. It dawns on her she has yet to reach out to him to let him know what is going on. It concludes with her memory of the event this morning. The look on Alexis' face as she was carried off is something Kate Beckett will not soon forget.
Worse, however, was the look in the eyes of the man she loves as she told him what had happened to his daughter, and had to hold him by the face – literally – to keep him focused and not falling out. She is exhausted. She knows he is at the end of his rope as well.
"What is next?" Castle asks their friend.
"Where are you now?" Kate asks, thinking more like a cop once again.
"Good question, Miss Beckett," Crockett offers. "I am – actually at the moment, in Washington Heights."
"You're visiting Simmons?" Castle asks, his heart racing just a bit faster now.
"In a manner of speaking, Mr. Castle," Willie tells him. "Getting closer to getting our girl back. This little falling domino will be hard to miss."
"I . . . we . . .Willie . . ."
"No thanks are necessary, Mr. Castle," Crockett tells him. "I told you I would check in periodically. That's all I am doing now. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have someone I must tend to here."
Before either Richard Castle or his new fiancée can say another word, the call is disconnected.
"What do you think 'in a manner of speaking' means?" he asks the beautiful but clearly tired ex-detective sitting next to him.
"With Willie, I have no idea and honestly, it isn't something I want to ponder all that much, Rick," she answers.
The image from television of Frank Marshall hanging on a hook outside his home, one leg clearly shattered was enough to try even the strongest stomach. The video of the blaze in Brooklyn, was another. And hearing directly from Captain Gates – who was in contact with the police responders in Brooklyn, they heard from Gates what the media did mention in the broadcast. That the couple outside the fire at their home had notes taped to their foreheads with the words 'Tick' and 'Tock' handwritten on them.
"All I know is that Vulcan Simmons is a prideful man," Kate worries aloud, "and his first response to this type of assault on his organization is not going to be to roll over and give someone what they want. His first response is going to be to fight back.
"That's what I am afraid of, too," Castle adds, running both hands through his hair. "Alexis can easily bear the brunt of that."
"I know, Rick," Kate agrees. "But I have to think – or maybe it is just hoping beyond reason – but I have to think that Willie knows what he is doing. I have to think that he knows how far he can push these people."
"Let's hope you are right," Castle finally remarks after a few seconds. There is a knock on the door. Castle moves to get up, but Kate pushes him back.
"Rest," she tells him. "I've got this."
Truth is, she does not need anything shocking on the other side of this door to send her fiancé into a tailspin and a relapse. She gazes through the peephole and smiles wistfully as she opens the door.
"Hey guys, come on in," she tells detectives Ryan and Esposito. "We have a lot to discuss."
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6:12 p.m. East Coast time, Monday Afternoon, April 23, 2012, In Washington Heights
Willie Crockett disconnects the call with Richard Castle and Kate Beckett. He turns his attention to the frightened woman who – for now – has tape over her mouth. He can see she is having a little trouble breathing and so he moves to take the tape off.
Taking this woman is a strategic move, but a necessary one. It is one thing to hit the homes of a gangland boss' underlings. Those homes are easy targets, usually not well-protected. It is an entirely different thing to go to the home or places of business of the man himself – where typically more than a few hired guns will be waiting. It's just not worth the risk. It is far better to set the terms, set the location for that particular meeting – setting that meeting on grounds that will be more favorable to Willie Crockett.
He walks to the older woman, and takes his phone out once again. He snaps a picture of the woman. She – again – has tape over her mouth, but is not restrained. There was no need. The massive weapon he showed her earlier were all the restraint that was needed.
He takes the tape from the woman's lips.
"I'm trusting you not to scream and to force me to do something I really don't want to do," he tells the woman. "I've done more than enough of that already this afternoon."
He pulls a chair next to the woman and sits down.
"Now, Mrs. Simmons, tell me the best number where I can reach your son, and share this picture with him," Willie tells her.
She quietly tells him the number he needs, and he mentally gives the older woman kudos for holding up so well.
"In some ways, I fell badly for you Mrs. Simmons, because this is clearly not your fault," he begins as he creates a text message with the photo of a gagged Mrs. Simmons. "In other ways, however, I have to wonder if the apple fell far from or close to the tree."
He eyes her harshly for a moment, before continuing.
"In the end, though, it doesn't matter," he tells her. "He has something I want. Now I have something he wants."
He sends the photo to Vulcan Simmons with the following message.
You get her alive when I get Alexis alive. Twenty-two hours and counting.
He purposefully uses Alexis' first name, instead of referring to her as Miss Castle. He wants Simmons to feel how personal this is. It will alter his thinking, just enough.
"Now," he tells her standing up. "Let's go downstairs and take a little ride. I need to put you somewhere safe – at least for now."
"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" the woman asks, finding her bravery.
"If I don't get what I want, and soon . . . then yes, I am going to kill you," he tells her.
The surprise and fear in her eyes moves even him. She expects to be killed. She knows this business. But she also expects to be told that she will not be killed. She expects to be told that everything is going to be all right. That this fearsome man has told her otherwise frightens her more than anything else.
"I am many things, Mrs. Simmons," he tells her. "A liar is not one of them. Now, let's get going, and hope that your son does – in fact – love his mother more than anything else."
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A/N: I hope everyone is enjoying this, and a Bennie-Award to all who found the Led Zeppelin easter egg in this chapter.