Hello everyone. Next chapter. Self-edited this time, so please excuse any grammatical issues.

As always, thank you for sticking with me on this epically long journey. The story is now moving into its final phase.

Please take a few moments to let me know what you think!

And on with the show...

Chapter 24

Rick took Beckett's advice for some time out, and headed back in to the Break room (that was, thankfully, empty) with more coffee on his mind. It was not exactly the most restful fare, but the making of it was the soothing, quieting, centring part that he was seeking in the short time they had before he would confront Baxter. And his partner was right, as usual, he did need a moment to take himself out of the spotlight and find a little silence. He grimaced a little at the descriptor his mind had chosen – a little silence. His was not a world devoid of sound, but neither was he used to all this noise. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that he had been living within the eye of his own personal storm (pun also not intended); concealed within a little bubble, keeping everything and everyone back at a manageable and muted distance. All the invasive clamour and tumult of having that bubble burst was unexpectedly deafening. And tiring. And painful.

And Mr Jones had not helped. It had been hard enough to reveal himself to friends, and even to the impersonal story-hungry press, but it was an entirely different sort of beast to handle when he had to show himself to someone like Mr Jones. The auditor had a job to do, and Rick he knew that he had it coming for hiding himself for so long, but did Bob really have to send someone so... so... Bureaucratic? It was an unexpectedly piercing injury to be taken apart and examined through the dry dusty prism of government disability legislation. It had been impossible to keep the Mayor's man off topic either, despite the killer latte and distracting patter. Mr Jones was a professional – with a profound lack of curiosity and no discernable sense of humour – so there was no getting around it. In the end, Rick had to concede to the superior power. As painfully confronting as it was, if this was Bob's revenge for keeping this secret and exposing the politician to negative press, Rick supposed he had to take it. So he spun a good tale, answered a scripted series of questions, and tried not to wince whenever the man over articulated his words like some bad Vaudevillian mime.

He would swallow his medicine and take one for the team. He would be useful.

Useful...

He had never been useful before. There had been many titular adjectives bestowed upon him in his life: annoying, funny, slick, delinquent, embarrassing, disappointing, eligible, unforthcoming, clever, burdensome, loquacious, lucrative, childish, frustrating – but never useful. He pondered that as he thumbed his cell to life and sought out Alexis' details.

Definition: useful – helping to do or obtain something.

And Montgomery had sent him off to be useful. Told him to be. Right when the Captain would have been within his rights to send him home given he was kind of suspended, he had accepted Rick's offer to talk with Baxter and had then ordered him to help him get the Precinct rid of Mr Jones. To go into battle for the defence of the Captain's kingdom! To be useful. That new potential title was strangely restorative and immediately inspired a desire to earn it, adding to his increasingly elevated mood and helping armour him against the worst of the sting of Mr Jones' interrogation.

He wondered if Beckett ever really considered him useful. Not entirely without use, for sure, but did she ever think of him as useful? To her work? To her?

Abruptly, the cell phone buzzed in his hand, interrupting his thoughts. It was Alexis. She would be responding to the prompt he sent whilst waiting for his partner just now: "The voice of parents is the voice of gods –",

AC: " - for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants." The Double Falsehood, a play by William Shakespeare.

He was going to pay for that one. He grinned – actually feeling like doing so for the first time in days. Then the phone suddenly vibrated again:

AC: Really, Dad? Really?

There was another buzz. This time the message was from Thwaites Personal Security, his preferred agency for private protection. Someone he had also messaged while waiting for Beckett.

ThwaitesSec: Message received, Mr Bond. Assignment parameters acceptable. 4 units available for immediate start. Usual Fund transfer details. Please confirm.

RC: Confirmed. Required 0600. Usual access arrangements.

ThwaitesSec: Confirmed.

And may Alexis and Mother forgive him, because there was no way he was going to let them out of the loft without personal protection. Despite everything, he would not risk his family's safety. Even if the figure in the forest might not be about to swoop down the street outside his house and attack during peak hour traffic, there were other ways, other times, and there was still the run of the mill problematic people that were (by the looks of his recent mail) feeling stirred into great passion by his deception. And now, Alexis was desperate to return to school and his Mother was anticipating a call back after her audition along with direction to attend immediate rehearsals. He couldn't be in two places at once, but Thwaites could. And he trusted them.

And they agreed to let him have a code name.

Rick deleted the text history and pocketed his phone. Time for coffee. He set about selecting the cups from the battered collection in the cupboard under the coffee machine. Two cups. The least chipped. He washed them out and set them aside before beginning his ritual. The machine he had gifted Homicide was only months old, but it was already looking every inch the workhorse to a horde of heavy-handed, caffeine-addicted Detectives. There were mysterious dents and scratches, coffee stains and something gritty and sticky on the wand – how had that last insult happened in the scant minutes since he had brewed up a latte for Mr Jones? Adding insult to injury, most of the machine's shine had been lost too. Except for a few patches that occasionally flickered with the reflected images of movement passed the window. Patches he covertly protected, polished and put to good use. Thanks to the lessons of his friend Mr Holmes, he was usually hyperaware of his environment, and there were so many uses to put any surroundings too.

As he began to work on his partner's beverage, he realised that his knuckles were feeling freer to move. The pain and stiffness seemed to be fading. He held up his unstrapped hand to inspect the damage. Hmmm. Or maybe it was just that since he found himself questioning the rightness of seeing that cloaked figure in the street, in full daylight, he had felt a new lightness in himself. His aches and pains felt more manageable, and even The Angry Ferret's breathing exercises did not feel so agonising. Yes, he felt better. All over.

Thanks to his partner (partner, yes), and her wonderful use of grammar. He, not it. He. It seemed the internal cascade of changes that little word had wrought from deep inside him was still unfolding. He smiled and flexed his less injured hand before putting it back to work on Beckett's coffee. Beans, milk, steam and ... Ah, the Zen of the Barista...

A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Something had just passed the unshuttered Break room window. He could see it in the distorted flash of colour that guttered in one of his polished surfaces: a deep rich red-brown that was very familiar. He turned his head, a fraction too late to identify the figure passing by, but saw O'Brien's scowl across the room as he evidently did make the identification. Devlin, his new rookie partner, just stared at the same spot with the faintly blushing and vacant stare of the young, the infatuated and the totally intimidated. There was only one person he had seen cause such a specific combination of reactions. She was here... Moving quickly, he shut off the coffee machine, wiped down the wand and dumped the used grounds into the trash. 3, 2, 1 – And –

"How do you do always that?" Beckett spoke from the open door way as he swivelled in place, smooth as glass on his expensive leather soles, her coffee proffered in his hand. She had a file in one of her hands, and the other was braced on the door knob, holding the way open, and the look she was giving him was bemused, confounded. It really was adorable how her eyes widened just so, brow creasing as elegantly shaped eyebrows rose gracefully upward in puzzlement.

"A magician never reveals his secrets," he returned mildly, teasing her and enjoying her reaction. He approached and handed her the heated mug. He returned for his own coffee and they exited the break room, heading for the elevator that would deliver them to Baxter. Yes, he was in a much better mood.

As the elevator carried them down to the cells however, Beckett filled him in on what he needed to know concerning Baxter and his daughter, so by the time they exited the conveyance he was once again sobered. Whatever Baxter's crime, whatever poor choice (or no choice at all) he had made to get involved with Carmichael, that did not make it acceptable that his daughter was now suffering the consequences. In no way could be it acceptable in the universe that a child should be used as a tool to punish or control. Whatever Baxter had done, his daughter did not deserve this. Neither did Baxter.

Espo's friend and mentee met them at the door to the cells. She was a tall uniformed woman with a fierce aspect, and she nodded at the cameras as she greeted them.

"He's ready. Hope you are," she commented bluntly as she unlocked the entrance and stood back holding the door. "Yell if you need me. Seems that whatever's got the cameras fritzed is affecting all the electrics down here. 'Coms' as well. Damn place needs to be totally refitted."

Then they passed through the door and were alone in the cells. Well almost.

Baxter.

Castle was surprised at the frisson of fear he felt as he regarded the man in the cold, unadrenalized, fluoro-light of day. Even though he was a few cells down still, partially hidden by overlapping layers of cage bars, this was quite unlike viewing him through the one way observation room glass when he was still fresh from battle. This was very... grounding. He breathed out. Slow and steady. A hand suddenly landed on his arm, long fingers gripping through the thin material of his pea coat. It caught his attention and he looked down to see Beckett regarding him quietly, solemnly. Ok? Her eyes asked. He nodded: let's do it. And he stepped forwards, leaving his partner out of sight at the door.

Rick approached Baxter's cell and stopped. The man inside was sitting on the metal bed bolted to the wall, in profile to his visitor, and taking up far more space than ought to be natural. His massive hands were braced on his knees, and he was giving the far wall of bars the thousand yard stare. Pretty much like how he had appeared in Interview with the boys. Rick took a few moments, while Baxter ignored him, to take in what he could.

The man was seriously huge. In another life time, he might have been a wrestler or weight lifter or one of those barrel -chested giants that pulled trucks down the road with his teeth for Ripley's Believe it or Not. But this wasn't those, and here in this time, Baxter had come up hard and poor to live a life enforcing the law – either his own or whoever was paying him most. And it showed. Even from this angle the man's beetle browed visage was scarred and his cheekbone was misshapen by some past misfortune that had been left untreated. It certainly had not resulted from Rick's own trivial attempts to rearrange the man's face – there was nothing visible from where he was standing to show for his own part in that encounter. Still, there was the no-small matter of Rick getting in that lucky punch. That had to smart. Somewhere deep inside that inscrutable natural phenomenon, there had to be a bruised ego wanting assuaging no matter how tightly Carmichael was squeezing him. How often would the law-enforcer Baxter have his clock cleaned one-on -one? Had he ever? And how painful would it be to find out just who had done the deed?

Time to find out.

Rick stepped forward, moving to stand at the corner of the cell closest to that fascinating far wall that Baxter was staring at. From this vantage he had the best view of his target; even the slightest twitch would be visible. He put his shoulder to the bars, nonchalant and cool, cradling his coffee in one hand.

"Remember me," Rick spoke, his voice steady and deliberate. Baxter didn't move. "No? Well, I'm not insulted. It was pretty smoky in that house, and I don't know about you but I was getting seriously buzzed. Reminds me of my college years. Well, when I say years... More my college months. Phew, but those were some days. I can't even recall what colour the ceiling was in that frat house." No reaction from Baxter. Rick snatched a glance at Beckett, to see her staring at him: what are you doing? "Still, with Mother paying the bills, who cares right?" Rick chuckled at his own story. "What the old lady doesn't know... Long as the family name's not brought low – "

Ah! And there it was: a twitch. For a split-second, a muscle movement giving the big man away. He was listening after all. And from the momentary squint in the eye, the tightening of the corner of his mouth, Rick's story was raising contempt within the big man.

"Ah, good old Alpha Sigma Sigma. Those were the days."

Another twitch. This time accompanied by a subtle relaxation of the big man's body. He was still sitting, hands braced, but his fingers were no longer digging into his knees, his back no longer as ramrod straight. Evidently, being talked at by a rich conceited fop was not very threatening.

"So, I just wanted you to know that I understand how you might not remember me, well," Rick chuckled again," knocking you on your ass."

And Baxter looked at him. Outright, turned his head and looked. Rick smirked, doing his utmost to appear at his cocky best. Baxter stared, measuring his visitor and becoming irritated, and even more contemptuous.

"Just a lucky punch, fancy pants, "he said, and Rick was so relieved that the man's voice was every bit as deep and resonant as might be expected from the mountain he resembled. "You anglin' for Round 2? Jes' unlock that door and we can go at it. I guarantee you; you won't be so lucky the next time."

"No thanks, tempting as that offer is. Might mess up my fancy pants," Rick said, considering the man as he spoke. "I'm here to make you an offer."

"An offer?" Baxter snorted, looking all around the cells, missing Beckett tucked out of sight near the door, before looking back at Rick. "You ain't in a po-sition to make me no 'offer.' 'Lessen it's a book deal. And I ain't interested in that."

"Ah, you know who I am?"

"I know. You a rich-ass, wannabe-cop writer. And I know that's all you are: you ain't no real cop, ain't no lawyer neither. You can't make me no deal. An' even if you could, I ain't interested." The big man sat back against the wall, body relaxing. "So, unless you came down here to open that there cell door and try your luck again, you can fuck off."

"O.K. Seems, I was unclear when I spoke before: I am here to make you an offer – concerning your daughter."

That had Baxter's attention. His great nostrils flared, lips tightening into a thin line, a vein rising to the surface at his temple. The smouldering coals of his deep-set eyes swung their scorching heat in Rick's direction.

"You best be on your way, writer. If you know what's good for you."

"I can't do that." Rick stared at Baxter, refusing to look away. "I'm a mystery writer. It's my thing. As soon as I get a whiff of something fishy, I just can't leave it alone. I saw you in that interview, with your lawyer Carmichael, or whatever he's calling himself right now, and I saw a whole barrel of fish. And I thought to myself, what could make a man of your calibre kow tow to a skinny fancy pants lawyer? A man like you would sooner snap his scrawny neck than have him tell you to take a life sentence and not even make life hard for the cops on the way. It didn't make sense.

"But then, I thought: I'm thinking about this all wrong. I should be thinking about this like a mystery, like a story, and then it all just came together. It didn't take much to dig up the details to confirm it all either. Carmichael, or at least the people he's working for, are threatening your daughter: Monday is it?"

"Fuck you!"

"But, as well as not being able to leave a good mystery story unsolved, I have another problem: I can't stand by and watch children come to harm. Nope. As soon as I figured it all out, I just couldn't leave it alone. And I won't. And there is nothing you can do about it; stuck behind in that little cage you have put yourself in. It won't be long before those Detectives on your case put the pieces together, either. They are slow, I admit, but not that slow."

Baxter's face was becoming volcanic as Rick continued.

"What do you want?" he growled through the bars.

"As I said, I want to make you an offer."

"What?"

"I want your permission to save your daughter."

"What?" Baxter's great brow wrinkled, adding several cracks to the mountainous crags of his forehead.

"I want your permission to – "

"What game you playing?"

"No game."

"Right. You: fancy pants an' all, gonna go up against Carmichael? By yourself?"

"Oh god no! I know serious trouble when I see it. I plan on sneaking around behind his back as much as possible."

"The fuck? You're playin' me now –"

"No, that is the one thing I am not doing." Rick stepped in close to the bars as Baxter rose to his abominable snowman height and moved towards him. It was so strange to have to look up to speak with someone. From the distance they halted at, it wouldn't take much for Baxter to reach through the bars and crush Rick like a bug. The writer didn't retreat. "With your permission, I will fetch your daughter and bring her here to you. Her mother too, if you request it. Once I have done that, in exchange for the continuing police protection of your family, you give us what you know on Carmichael and his organisation."

Baxter regarded him solemnly through the bars, his flat brown eyes tracking back and forth between Rick's blue ones. Rick stared back. Let the man think. Let him have the time.

But not too much.

"Well?" Rick prompted. "Your answer?"

"The po-lice can't protect my family."

"And Carmichael will?" Rick countered. "We have your ... what we shall call him: your brother-in-law, in custody too. What's his name: Bingo?

"I hear he's not the sharpest of tools; doesn't have the stiffest of spines. How long will it be before he says or does something that pisses Carmichael off? Then who will pay? You think Carmichael or his people care which one of you specifically causes them trouble? The threat still stands.

"You give me permission now, and I can talk my partner into keeping things quiet. We'll go in fast and have your family out and back here with you before Carmichael can react. But if we wait too long then it will all become official and noisy and people will talk, and there will be raids, and formal interviews where they ask you about your daughter, your family."

"Fuck...," Baxter's skin was starting to become dusky. He was beginning to breathe heavily, nostrils flaring.

"Your answer?"

"You can't guarantee you'll beat Carmichael," Baxter stated, phrasing it like an accusation.

"No, I can't. But I do guarantee you I will do everything I can to do just that."

"Fuck...," Baxter said again, and shook his head. "Fucking cops... Fucking wannabe cops..." he shook his head again. And started retreating into the cell. Backwards towards his bunk.

"Baxter," Rick called out after him. "This is a onetime offer. Right now, above our heads, the cops on your case are putting things together themselves. Once they do..."

But Baxter was finished talking. He sat back down on the bunk and the metal groaned its protest. Rick watched the man curl those great hands into fists on his knees, and that brow crease further. Silence passed in a count of minutes, rather than seconds, and still Baxter said nothing. He had resumed staring at the bars of his cage. Rick took a chance, finally, to glance at Beckett where she was listening by the door. She tapped her watch. Time was ticking away.

Something had just gone very wrong with his plan. He studied Baxter, but was met with a closed shop.

"This is your daughter's life, Baxter!" Rick called after him, feeling the roughness of his voice as it passed through his vocal cords and into the emptiness of the cells.

"Yeah, 'xactly!" Baxter turned his head again, to glare at his interrogator through the bars. "Fuckin' wannabe cop. You understand nothing! You're living in one of your books. This ain't no book. This is real life!

"You think you're gonna help my kid? The fuck you know about anything? This is the way it is in my world – I know what I gotta do to protect her. It's down to me! Me! Got it?"

"It doesn't have to be that way!"

"Like fuck it doesn't!" Baxter snapped back, rising back to his full height and almost lunging at the cage bars. "What do you know? Just fuck off you little shit. You're pissing me off now."

"I know!" Rick retorted, feeling the heat in his own words as he refused to back away from the cell. He barely registered the other man's hands reached out to grip the cage bars right in front of him. "I know. More than you think. Sure, ok, you can do this alone. Sure. But how long can you keep toeing Carmichael's line? How long before the people around you want out? Huh? Do you think they care which one of you all it is to make the first move that breaks the deal? And what about Bingo? How long until he decides he can't do the time and tries to cut a deal? How long until he talks?"

"He won't!" Baxter countered, with all the quiet heavy menace only someone of his calibre could produce. In another space, another time, Rick would have had his notepad out or his cell to record this conversation, but –

"You're going to rely on that: a threat? While you are stuck in this cage? Really? And I'm the one living in a fantasy!"

"I should rely on you, pretty boy?" Baxter asked, and Rick clutched at the continued conversation: if he was still talking, there was still a chance for this to work. Why else would the man keep on talking? Somewhere in that massive skull, he knew he needed more help. He had to know. That just had to be the reason he was still talking. Rick tried to keep the growing desperation out of his voice.

"Not just me: my partner. She knows how to do things; how to get things done right the first time."

"A cop. Gonna help me." The disbelief dripped from Baxter's voice.

"Not you – Monday." Rick shot back.

"But only if I talk? Turn rat, right?"

"Rat? What kind of loyalty can you possibly have to a man who has threatened your child? Or is this about the Code? Don't help the police? Well, fuck the Code: this is your daughter! Help me save her and help justice be served to the man who would harm her."

"Justice! Oh fuck, hah" Baxter seemed genuinely amused by that, but then his eyes narrowed and grew hot again. "You don't wanna help me or mine – you wanna make a trade for your cop buddies. You wanna do some business to impress your woman cop, and use my kid as currency? Shit, you talk all high and mighty, but if I don't make your deal, you'll walk away same as the real-deal cops and leave me and my kid to hang."

"No, I won't. I told you I want your permission to save your daughter and I will. What happens to you both after that is what is on the table. You can take your chance and run, or you can give us what we need to nail Carmichael and save Monday. The hard fact of the matter Baxter, is that your daughter is caught in the middle of this shit storm, and you need to get her out! You need to protect her, that is your job. You are her father.

"But now you are stuck in this cage of your own making, and all you can do is make the best damn deal you can to save her. So yeah, it's a trade, but the tender isn't your daughter: she's the prize. The price is your damn pride. It's your trust. It's everything that you are and thought you were. You have to give that all up to get her back and keep her safe!" The desperation was there now, roaring out of him at the giant behind the bars. And the big man seemed stunned by it. They stared at one another. Measuring, calculating. Then Baxter made to step back and Rick lunged after him, unthinking, impulsive. His fingers snagged the other man's shirt sleeve. Baxter reacted fast, on instinct, slapping Rick's hand from his clothing and grabbing back, hard. And then he yanked. Rick couldn't stop himself and slammed into the cell bars, the air thumped from his lungs and the side of his head connecting with the cage wall. He was trapped: stunned with his arm inside the cage.

There was a sudden commotion. Noise. He recognized the timbre of Baxter's voice, yelling. And there were more hands. Familiar: slim and strong and commanding.

"Baxter!" He threw his own voice into the mix, not knowing if he could be heard, not understanding what was being said around him. He just had to - "This is your daughter! You have to save her!"

His arm was free. He was being pulled back out of harms way, but all that mattered was Baxter – seeing the man in retreat, hands raised, into the depths of the cell.

No!

"Baxter!" Rick felt himself tilt as he was pulled back and his vision fuzzed at the edges. Those strong hands pulled him; he stumbled, caught himself and yelled for Baxter again. He couldn't give up now. The bastard had to step up and do what he had to do. "No, let me go!"

But then the cells were suddenly gone. The room contracted, walls and ceiling shrinking around him, closing in, suffocating. His back hit a wall behind him – too close behind him – and he felt something, a pressure, against his chest, pinning him there. Like a bug. He pushed it away, it slammed him back.

"C- *something*-" A voice. So close and – ah. He felt it before he really saw it. Beckett. As he came to his senses, he realized that she had him back against the wall inside the elevator. He could feel her hand against his chest, fingers pressing in hard. Then there were more fingers, digging into his chin and pulling until he couldn't do anything else but turn and look down. And there she was, face sharpened like cut diamond in the unforgiving glare of the elevator lighting. Brilliant and shining with something - fierce.

"Castle!" She mouthed the word, and gave him a little shove. His ribs didn't like it, but the pain cut through to him, finally. The pain and the intensity in her eyes. "Rick? You here with me?"

"Yeah." There was the weight of the word on his lips, the heavy vibration in his throat and he knew he had spoken, but it felt academic. Remote. Silent. He felt brittle, like he might shatter. His partner seemed to feel it too because she kept her hand braced against his sternum even as her hand on his face slipped away. Her remaining hand was warm anchor, keeping him from floating off and breaking apart. "Here. With you."

He breathed through it. And he thought, so was she. And then the fog started to clear in his bruised brain. His head throbbed on the ebb of it.

They are in the elevator. There is no sense of movement. They are in the elevator, not moving.

Where is my coffee mug?

How could Baxter not take up the offer of help? Why could he not? Carmichael and his associates could and would take his daughter. Harm her.

Kill her.

It was unthinkable. Beyond horrifying.

Thoughts of Alexis suddenly come to him. She was a lot older than Monday, but still so vulnerable. He still has to check himself whenever they horse around. But when she went through that wrestling with Da-Da phase at age two, he had to be so careful. That perfect delicate skin, those little flailing arms and reddened cheeks, all so fierce yet so fragile. He let her wrestle him to the floor, time after time, so careful to protect her as he 'fell', letting her grab and clutch and claim victory astride his fallen body. He had felt it then, so shockingly, so keenly: how mismatched they were. He could have hurt her. So easily. Even now, if she fell asleep on the couch at night, and he cradled her to his chest to make the steep ascent up the stairs to her room, he was so careful. The difference in their strength, though shrinking with time, was immense. He was so so careful.

So the thought of her, alone in the world, at the mercy of others who were so much stronger...

Alone in the forest... No. Don't go there. Not there. Never there.

God.

But, Baxter had pulled away. Refused help.

No father could do that to his child. Baxter wouldn't. Rick had seen that photograph; he saw the look in the big man's eye as he looked at his child. That was love. Pure and simple. But still he had pulled away.

There could only be one reason he had -

"I screwed up." Rick felt his voice, rough and thick in his throat. He rolled his head heavily against the wall, until he could look at his partner properly. As he met her eyes, her hand fell away from his chest. He sagged a little against the wall.

"No."

"I thought I could do it. Get under his skin and piss him off enough to start talking. I did something wrong."

"Castle. No," she said, shaking her head, looking at him. "You did well. I wasn't sure what you were doing at the start, but it was a good tactic." She managed a smile, a fleeting and wan curl of her lips. "Except maybe: Alpha Sigma Sigma? A.S.S., Castle. Really?" She shook her head and reached out to press the button that would start the elevator's ascent. He felt the box they were in shiver and lurch as it began to move. "It wasn't anything you did," Beckett said. "We have leads. Good ones. We'll work them as well as we can. We'll find that girl."

"But in time?" Rick asked. Couldn't help asking. It wasn't helpful, but the words came out anyway.

Beckett had nothing to say to that, but he saw the emotions play out on her face. She was feeling this as much as he was and he appreciated her honestly in not trying to comfort him with platitudes or outright lies. He felt her squeeze his arm, then her hand dropped away and the elevator juddered to a stop. The doors opened, they stepped out. And Espo was there, his face alight.

"I don't know what you said to him Castle," Espo said, triumph in his eyes, "but Cortez just rang through: Baxter gave up an address for his kid!"

"What?" Beckett barked pushing passed Rick as he stood stunned. She took the paper from Espo's out stretched hand. "That's 20 m- *something*! Apartmen-, storage facilities... *something* *something* warrant..."

"Papewor- *something* desk!" Espo said, looking at Beckett, his words disappearing as Rick's mind tried to make sense of what the other man had just said. Espo turned to Rick, grabbing his attention with the sheer energy of his triumph. "Damn, bro, that was some good work! When all this is done, you gotta tell me what you did! Beers, The Haunt, you and me and Kev and the Boss and everyone!" And Espo was gone, racing off on some pre-rescue preparations. He turned, just before disappearing around the corner and gave a salute, ending the gesture was a finger aimed at Rick. He grinned and was gone.

"Uh," the writer managed.

"*something* *something* *something*," Beckett's lips moved as she talked to herself, running her fingers through her hair in a familiar gesture that spoke of thoughts being organized under pressure. "Castle!" Beckett suddenly turned back to him, her eyes on fire with determination, but also far distant as if she had already left the building on the way to rescue the girl.

"Yes. Yeah." He blinked, trying to get his brain working. He did it! Baxter. He had - he had done it! "I'll just phone Mother, let her know – "

"No. No. Castle, go home."

"But –"

"Castle." Beckett was already at her desk with Castle following along automatically. She scooped up the paperwork, slamming her laptop shut. "You're in no shape to come with us. Go home."

"But –"

"*something*! *something*!" His partner called out, and was disappearing after Espo. He watched her go, feeling shell-shocked at the whirlwind of developments in the last 30 seconds. Feeling abandoned and alone right when he should be in the thick of battle alongside his partners. Damn.

His cell phone suddenly buzzed. He thumbed the little screen.

KB: Thank you. Will call you. Dinner?

Rick stared at the message. Blinked and read it again. Clutched the phone. He had done it. Baxter was, right now, stepping up. He was casting aside who he was and putting his trust, and his desperation, in the people of the Twelfth. In Rick himself. The crisp unforgiving edges of the cell cut in to his palm as he swallowed around that knowledge. It was time he did the same. Time to step up, to push himself aside, and do what a father should. Now. No more delays.

He thumbed his cell to life again and found Alexis' details. He had the perfect text prompt in mind.

RC: "We came, we saw, we – "

He didn't have to wait long:

AC: - kicked its ass." Dr Peter Venkman, Ghostbusters.

End of Chapter

Next chapter coming very soon...