Falling Down

Chapter 11

She had not taken a sleeping aid, but at some point, she'd fallen asleep. The fragile rest was fractured by her phone's ringer. Eyes still glued shut, her hand searched for the night stand for the source of the noise. When she located it, she opened her eyes just enough to see and swipe the answer icon.

She grunted out a weak, "Beckett."

"Detective we have a deceased male."

Taking a second, she moved the phone away, cleared her throat and then spoke to the caller, "Please text the address."

"Will do."

She sat up, mumbled to the dark room a groan of, "Shoot me now." On unsteady legs she stumbled to the bathroom. Her day was underway, it was 1:35 am. It would be a long one, without the benefit of sleep.

When she arrived at the scene, it was surprisingly quiet. The uniforms had cordoned off the entrance to an alley. The ME's wagon was parked neatly against the curb. Not much traffic at this time of the day.

She noticed a man, sitting on the curb, his head in his hands. Maybe a rousted street person. These were the haunts of the homeless.

After flashing her badge, the cop on the perimeter let her in. At the mid-point in an alley she saw the light stand and three people huddled around.

One was Ryan, the other the ME, the third looked like a Sargent. She spoke to the group, "Morning...or night. What do we have?"

The ME responded, Detective, nice to see you, so bright and early." She pressed on, "Caucasian male, mid-thirties, at least six knife wounds to his abdomen."

"Wow, that's a lot of stabbing! Somebody was either real angry or…."

Detective Ryan finished the sentence, "High, real high."

Beckett shook her head, "Lots of wounds, that's for sure."

Ryan pointed over her shoulder, "The guy on the curb, knew the vic."

"Have you spoken with him yet?"

"No, was waiting for you. The uniforms said he ID'd the guy. Part of a half-way house or something".

"Do we know the curb guy's relationship with the vic?" Or his name?

"It's Bishop, he's a priest, a minister, maybe a social worker...don't know yet."

"OK talk to everybody, I'll see what he has to say."

When she walked up to the seated man, he did not move. His head was now up and he stared out into the night, like he was lost.

"Mr. Bishop, I'm Detective Beckett. Can I ask you a few questions? I understand you knew the victim?"

The man did not look at her, but spoke into the night, "You mean Bob? His name was Bob Campbell."

Beckett could hear the mingling of anger and grief in his response. She'd seen the mourners after every murder she worked on. This man was not just an observer, "Sir, are you OK?"

He looked up at her, his eyes sad, glistening from tears. "No, I'm not." The anger bubbled out, "I hate death," pausing he looked away, "It robs us of all that is good...in exchange for nothing. It's a relentless thief… steals hope...and steals the best." He shook his head, and then returned his stare to the gutter.

She spoke softly, "How well did you know Mr. Campbell?"

He response was slow, as if he was wearied by the effort of speaking, "I know him well. He's been at our shelter for...most of a year. He's been making real progress. Been talking about returning to his family...somewhere in the mid-west."

"What kind of services do you offer at the shelter?"

"Whatever they need. Many of our people come for just the food, a shower and an occasional bed. But there are others that are at the end. Those come to find hope. They're the reason I do this."

"What does that mean? At the end? End of what?"

He stood, coming eye to eye with her. "I have found, in working with people, on every strata of life, that no one begins, until they come to the end of themselves. To their own end. Bob had done that. He was out of excuses and out of blame. He'd come to the end and chose life. To be free of drugs and alcohol. But there was more, he wanted to be free of what he called, 'the fool in him.'

"So he was on the way to recovery? What did he mean by, the 'fool?'"

He stretched out his arm, and waved across the New York sky-line. She instinctively turned to look in the direction, "All the lights, the people...just a veil. Many living in desperation, pretending it's wonderful. It's not. Smoke and glass. When the lights go out...the doors close...they ache… and loneliness rules their hallow existence." He shook his head, "But the men and women who end up down here, are all out of BS. They can't pretend to be wonderful. They're not. But in a world of pretense, and dishonesty, they can be painfully honest...blunt…hard on themselves and those around. Bob Campbell was honest, and struggling with his demons, but calling them out. His passing," He took a long draw of silence. His voice thick with emotion, "It's a great loss to me."

He returned to silence, Beckett waited. When it appeared he was done, "Can you think of any thing that would cause this to happen? Any enemies?"

"Why are you here Detective? Why do care about...what people on your side of the tracks call, homeless...bums...vagrants?"

She was silence, allowing the bitterness to spend itself. She then spoke, almost whimsically, "Everyone counts...or no one counts."

His head came up, "Ah Connelly? Then he pointed again at the skyline. "Rich count...we don't."

"I disagree," her tone stern, "both count in my world."

"Is that a cliche?"

What happened next surprised her, she was a closed person. Did not let her private life even spill into work. She simply did not let the lines between work and her private life cross. Then she heard her own voice, "My mother was killed when I was 19, left in an alley... dead...", she raised her arm and pointed back to where the body lay, "Just like that." Then, after a few beats, in a barely audible version of herself, "Everyone counts."

The man's eyes went wide, as if struck, grief painted his face, "I'm sorry...so sorry…I can be a real jerk."

Beckett paused. Out of breath, feeling her own heart thumping. "No you're right...to wonder, this is the under belly of the city! Your people are discounted to little or not value, but that's not the way it is for me." She had to stop this emotional train.

Both said nothing for a bit. She cleared her throat. "So back to my question, can you think of anyone or anything that would cause this to happen? Any enemies?"

Again, shaking his head, "He had nothing. If his pockets weren't emptied, I doubt you'd find five dollars on him." The he held up one finger, "He did have one thing, a small gold cross, said his mother gave it to him years ago. It was a reminder of his first life."

"First life?"

"Yeah, he was banker. Made lots of money. Believed the lie, started partying...for business purposes, then it turned personal and, then work got in the way of the drugs." He stopped and shook his head, "He told me the first thing, was his marriage, then kids and finally," waving his arms like a presenter, "to this."

Beckett thought about the flood of information, trying to process what it meant, "You're telling me you have no idea?"

"I'm simply telling you he wasn't willing to just go through the motions. He was being honest. He was not running from what undid him. We can't run. You can do it for only so long...then you run out of time, excuses and...those we love."

"What did he think of his family?

"He knew he'd lost what he called the love of his life. He loved her and missed her terribly. But he was still a father, he wanted to be present..."

"Present?"

He laughed, "Yeah I always wonder if someone is present when I speak with them...like you, am I getting the Detective Beckett persona, or this you?" Since he was not really asking, he moved on, "Bob wanted to connect with his kids, make amends and be present in their lives. A big task. We were working on that process. I was getting the real Bob, I liked him." He stopped for a second, then softly added, "I'll miss that."

His words were blunt, but struck a chord, uncharacteristically for her. She drifted from the crime scene. She wondered about the real her, whomever that was. Work and life had pushed her into a mold. But Castle has undone her neatly ordered world. Now this stranger's calm and pointed words about a dead man, had undone her, unknowingly named the confused version of herself. For a second, she could identify with the victim who had squandered the most precious of all things, love and time. She for months, even years pushed aside the undertow of Castle in her life. She'd played and cajoled and opted for time. His condition was destroying him physically and her emotionally. When he asked her to travel with him, she began formulating reasons to decline, before he even looked up for her response. Of courses the timing was off, but she could have worked out something. Now her nights were fractured, her days overshadowed with his absence. The mans voice reeled her back.

"Detective, you OK? Sorry for rambling?"

"No, no...its not you. The middle of the night is not my best time."

"I understand."

"So you don't have any people, enemies that come to mind?'

"No Detective, no idea. Chalk it up to the streets."

"If something comes up? Can I follow-up with you."

"Sure, the facilitiy is over couple blocks, I'm there nearly everyday. Let me give you a cell phone number, the other guy has the office one."

After she had taken the number down, she thanked him and moved back towards the scene. She had gone half the distance when she looked back over her shoulder, the guy from the mission, was back sitting on the curb.

She'd seen many different reactions to death, she had her own nightmares over her mom's, but there was both an honesty and sadness to the Bishop guys reaction. She thought of the book title, Atlas Shrugged, and in the context of tonight, it was as if Michael Bishop was shrugging at the weight of the world's loss. As though humanity had taken a hit, and he alone mourned the loss.

Later as she made her way home, her thoughts returned to own foolishness, her losses with Castle. She, unlike the dead man had not been honest, first with herself and then with him. She ignored her heart, gave it no council in her busy schedule, and suddenly, her busy life was just an empty busy day. Over and over in each day she again and again came fact to face with the devastation of losing Castle. As the thoughts swirled, her chest began to ache, her breaths were labored. She felt the panic bubble up and pull at her. She jumped out of bed, and started to pace, talking herself down, reminding herself to breathe deep to breathe slow, to fully exhale, take in another breath, let it fill her lungs. Then repeat.

As she stood over the bathroom sink the cold water dripping from her face, she groaned, "Please call me Castle, please."

XX

He had been on the island for a week. Things were going as he planned, mostly. The first set back was an alarming text from Gina, "I can be there tomorrow if you need the company?"

When he thought about company, one name came up. It wasn't Gina's. Since he'd stuck to his schedule, he had emailed her three edited chapters of Heat Rises?, then added, if she wanted the rest of the chapters, he needed to keep working. Her response was swift and as he expected. Focus on the work as she looked closer at her calendar, she didn't think time away would work this week, sorry. He sighed, 'Mission accomplished.'

On Sunday he called Beckett, 8:30 am, when she answered her voice was sleepy, as she muttered her normal, "Beckett."

"Kate, I'm sorry! I forgot about the time differences, its only 6:30am there, I'll call you back." As he started to hang up she spoke quickly, "Castle….it's OK, talk to me. What's up?"

They talked about the past week, her new case with the skid-row victim, and his work on the book. He told her about Gina's offer to come down, how he declined using the business angle of him generating more chapters and her sudden change of heart, along with her encouragement for him to press on. "Dodged a bullet there...did not want her down here."

"See I told you you'd be OK".

"No, that's not what you told me! You told me no."

"Not no, just that I had to work, and the FBI interview...you know why I couldn't go."

"Well that does not equal me being OK...just alone."

She was silent for a few beats. "You're never alone, fans everywhere."

He huffed, "Fans have nothing to do with being alone." He didn't want the conversation to go this way.

Time to change the subject, "You should see the coast-line of the islands, it is just beautiful. Plus I got to see giant tortoises, one of them was here when Darwin was alive. They live a long time."

She was listening closely now, and knew something was off. His voice was cheery, but a forced cheeriness, but underneath, the predominate tone was flat, "Castle...so tell me, how are really doing?"

"I'm doing great, why do you ask?" Feigning innocents.

"Because it's me. I know how you sound...I also know when you're off, and you're off." She heard him sigh, and take a deep breath.

The cheer was gone, the flat tone dominated, "The meds are bothering me...I feel.. a little sick to my stomach, and I'm very tired."

"How long?"

"Just the last couple of days. The first week or so was OK, then towards the end of the week it got worse. At first I chalked it up to jet lag. The trip here was an incredibly long day. But, its been a week, so, it's not jet lag?"

"Not likely, have you called the doctor?"

"No, he said there might be rough patch for the first few weeks or so."

She didn't want to butt into his life, still he had asked her in. Still she was uneasy, reluctant on what to say and what not to say.

"Beckett you there?"

"Yeah, I was going to ask you something...but changed my mind."

He whined, "You can't do that! It's like telling someone you have a secret, then saying, oh never mind." He huffed, "You're thousands of miles away..."

When he didn't say more, she waded in, "I was going to ask you why you decided to go to the islands at this time. Why not wait to see how the treatment...fit."

"I understand, and thank you for asking," He was quiet for a few seconds, "You said, at this time." There was another long pause, "Time...time is something I don't have Beckett. At least not like I used to… and, I don't want to waste it...being sick...I just need to work through bad meds, even with some miserable days."

When he said the words I don't have, her eyes burned and she felt stupid for even suggesting he take things slowly. She felt her throat constrict and a she drew in air, trying to push the phone away so he would not hear her.

"Beckett, tell that was not..."

Her voice was thick, "It wasn't..." She smiled to herself, they didn't even need nouns to talk to one another.

But he knew she was. He would not press her, he was tired of making her cry. That was not who he was. But of late it seemed his strong and resilient detective had become vulnerable, and was the one needing protection. He felt like it was from all things Castle. He had to be more careful. He would be more careful.

"So, what can I bring home for you?"

She laughed at the subject change, "One of Darwin's tortoise's."

"Right, sneak her into my carry-on?" She offered a small laugh. It was a sound he much preferred.

"And when is your carry-on getting on the plane?"

It was his turn to laugh, "It's ride is schedule for a week from today."

She sighed, "Will you call before you go to sleep tonight?"

The request brought a smile to his face, "I would be happy check in with you Detective….and again, I'm sorry I woke you so early on a Sunday morning."

"I'm not." Her voice happy again, "Talk to you soon."

XX

After the call ended. He sat and looked out over the ocean. This was an exceptionally beautiful place. If asked, he'd tell anyone what a calming effect it had on him. But that would be a lie.

The calm in his upside down life, lay in a bed three thousand miles away. Her voice, her laugh, even when she skidded around tears, was always a balm to him. He was at peace with the fact that she would not be his. The problem was his heart. It would not obey.

It was much more conflicted and difficult to control. How can someone heart taunt them. His did. It always chimed in head, that she already had all of him. He could not hold back, could not help but love her. For him, it was over and done. Their short conversation had chased away the anxieties of chemo and his relentless cancer. He had talked himself into a corner conceding that the cancer was winning, the meds were failing. But now he felt the calm that only she could bring.

As with most unseen, unspoken fears, they grow immense in the dark, but falter in the light of day. The act of just telling her he didn't feel well made his unrealistic speculations vanish. They were unfounded, and his symptoms were just as predicted. Beckett had always been able to open the doors of his craziness and quell the storms. He felt a wave of sadness wash over him. He missed her, and a day without her near was always a lesser day for him.

As he lay back onto the bed, he could not believe how upset his stomach was, he spoke to no one, "Toughen up Rick."

AN: As always, thank you for reading. Madreag