Monster: Chapter 5
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
Day 5: On an isolated island in the Tangier Islands, Late Morning, May 17, 2014
The early morning sweat cakes his forehead as Castle sits – naked – under the shade of the tree near the southern fence. He can't tell if he is starting to develop a low grade fever, or if his body is simply beginning to rebel against the sudden immersion into this very different world.
No air conditioning, limited food, no soap, no toothpaste, no deodorant. No socks, so he has to guard against blisters on his feet from the tennis shoes provided for him. No razor, so no shaving. Even with the bucket drenches from the water well, he feels horribly dirty. He smells. His mouth is dry. His hair, now longer, is oily and the makings of a beard begins to cake to his skin.
And the bugs – between the damn black flies and the mosquitos – well, he knows the possibility of catching something pretty bad out here with no antibiotics. The vitamins aren't going to help. The small welts on his arms and legs itch, but it's the ones on his back, the ones he can't reach that are starting to drive him crazy. They are the proverbial itch you cannot scratch. Added all together - the bugs, the sun, the solitude . . .
And finally – he's not hungry. Hungry doesn't begin to describe what he feels. He is beyond starving. He misses his fiancée. He misses his daughter. He misses his life. He's been sentenced by someone to solitary confinement, with a hint of gruesome death just across the fence that forms the cell bars, keeping him in. And he has no idea why.
He scratches his arms furiously, and then finally buries his head in his hands as he sits. Today, everything is starting to pile up and take its toll on the writer. No, today is not a good day. Yesterday he felt strong, he felt courageous, he felt – and he knows it is illogical – but he felt somewhat in charge. Nothing has really changed from yesterday to today – but everything has changed, somehow.
Yesterday's defiance is gone. Today, he is despondent. He just wants to go home, to get out of here. It's been five days now, by the count he keeps on the wall. He didn't know how long he would be here on that first day, but somehow as he approaches the one week mark, it seem interminably longer than that. Somehow the psychological motion of making that horizontal line across and through the four previous vertical strokes on his wall has thrown Castle for a loop. An endless loop he is now stuck in.
"Arrrgh!" he screams suddenly, trying to brush away the small swarm of ten or twenty flies that buzz around his face. He can feel himself slowly losing it. He knows he has to regain his cool, his composure, but he has allowed himself to go too far down, too quickly this morning.
"Help me, God," he mutters to himself, opting now for faith as opposed to his own logic or planning.
A minute passes, then another. And another. Richard Castle picks himself up off the ground with a sigh, and brushes himself off. He walks to the water well, and grabs the bucket. He takes off his shoes, and fills the bucket up to the brim. He quickly drops the entire contents on top of his head. He fills the bucket a second time and repeats the procedure. Then a third time.
He falls to his knees, his face into the ground, mumbling incoherently for a few seconds. Gathering himself, he stands back up, one last time filling the bucket and dumping it on his head, down his body. Staring upward at the sky, he narrows his eyes against the bright sun, and exhales deeply.
"Thank you," he whispers, and slowly walks back toward the tree on the southern side. Retrieving his boxer shorts that he had left hanging on a tree branch, he walks back toward the well. A half bucket later, his shorts are drenched, and he pulls them up, feeling the cool water against his skin. He takes another deep breath, and drops toward the ground, his first round of push-ups for the morning in front of him.
"Stick with the routine, Rick," he tells himself. "You can do this, dammit."
Day 5: Somewhere on the East Coast, Same time, on May 16, 2014
"Yes, what is it?"
"You said to call if there is any change."
"Yes, that's right. So talk to me, what has changed?"
"I can't tell for certain, but I think the insect population is starting to take its toll on him. Might have been the sun, but I can't be sure. He might be getting feverish."
"Okay, thank you. Have Blackman make another run today, just to drop some antibiotics to the ground. We want him alive. Can't have him getting sick."
"Okay, I will let him know."
There is a pause for a few seconds, before the conversation continues.
"What else can you tell me?"
"It's starting to weigh on him, emotionally."
"About time. A few days later than I expected. Impressive."
"You sound like you admire him."
"You sound like you forget your place, Jason."
"No, no. I don't. I was just saying –"
"I know what you were saying, Jason. Anything else?"
"He looks like hell."
"Captivity will do that to you, Jason. Remember that."
The thinly veiled threat ends the conversation, as Jason hangs up, suppressing a cold shudder that hits him. Shaking it away, he glances down at his cell phone and dials a new number.
"Blackman," the voice announces by way of greeting.
"It's me. She wants you to make another run out there. Drop off a small box of antibiotics," Jason tells him.
"What, is our little debutante feeling a little under the weather?" the pilot asks, remembering the arrogance their captive had shown just yesterday.
"Seems to be. And you know we need to keep him alive."
"Yeah, Yeah, I know," Blackman replies testily. "I will get out there this afternoon. Thanks for the heads up."
Both men mutually disconnect the call, as Blackman smiles to himself.
"Can't wait to see you again, Mr. Castle," he chuckles softly, with a strong hint of mischief and menace dusting his voice.
Day 5: New York City, at Richard Castle's Loft, 11:45 a.m., May 16, 2014
Alexis Castle stands at the large, floor to ceiling window in her father's loft on this Saturday morning, her hands hanging limply at her side. Her signature hair is in a ponytail, a very different look for the young woman. She's spending the weekend here from college. There is only one more week of classes and tests before she will be finished with this semester. Her mind, however, is far, far from the college campus.
"Find anything?" she asks the woman who sits at the kitchen island. Alexis doesn't turn to face her as she asks, simply continuing to stare out the window at . . . at nothing.
"Not yet," Kate Beckett replies, her frustration mounting. She has been staring at the video for the past hour and a half. Playing. Rewinding. Playing again. The process has been repeated countless times now. She knows – in her bones – that the clue she needs is here.
"Why send this to you, Kate?" Alexis asks. "Why send this without a ransom note, without some request. It's like whoever did this just wanted us to know that Dad is alive – but nothing beyond that."
"That's exactly what they want us to know, Alexis," Kate replies again, still not taking her eyes off the video that she continues to replay.
"Then why no ransom?" the young redhead ask with exasperation, now turning to face the detective.
"I don't know," Kate responds, still focused entirely on the video. She feels the young woman's gaze and finally glances up at her.
"I don't know, Alexis," she repeats, "but I am going to find the answers. Count on it."
"Have you figured out why they sent the video to the mayor?" Alexis asks. "You don't think he's involved in this do you? He's supposed to be my dad's –"
"Mayor Weldon isn't involved, Alexis," Kate tells her, "And I don't know why they sent him the video, but I've decided that isn't important."
"Why not?" Castle's daughter asks, now confused. "That's all you could talk about last night, and –"
"And that was my mistake," Kate almost spits out. "All of our mistake. It's unimportant. What's important is on the tape, not where it was sent."
Kate sees the confused look deepen, and so she stands, and walks towards her almost step-daughter, stopping just in front of her, with her hands in her pockets.
"You saw the video, Alexis," she begins. "When we first saw it, the first impression was that your dad was off having a good time. I thought that's what they wanted us to believe – what they wanted me to believe. But then they panned to the lions. And they showed your dad's reaction. See, they didn't have to do that. They could have left it with your dad prancing around playing air guitar. They could have cut the video right there."
"But they didn't," Alexis comments, a bit of life springing into her still young eyes. If there is anyone there who knows what it is like to be caged, it is Alexis. Her ordeal in Paris is still not that far behind her yet.
"Right," Kate agrees. "They didn't. They wanted us to see. There is something there," Kate says, pointing back to the DVD. "There is something on there that will tell us where he is, what is happening."
"How do you know?"
"I just know, Alexis," Kate replies. She gives the younger woman a long hug, then releases her and walks back toward the kitchen island – and the DVD.
"I just know."
Day 5: Late Afternoon on the Island, on May 16, 2014
For Richard Castle, the day has gotten slightly better. After his near meltdown this morning, his routine of exercise has actually put him in better spirits. He has not seen the lions today, but that does not surprise him, as the beasts will tend to sleep longer after . . . after feeding.
He stares at the fence, slightly horrified when he realizes that he actually misses seeing the two big cats staring back at him. They are fearsome, yes. They are terrifying. But they are also company, a break in the solitude.
They are all that he has.
He glances up at the sun, now starting its descent toward the horizon. He figures he has another three hours or so of sunlight left. Too soon for his second exercise series, and too soon to eat. It's this monotony, nothing to do, that eats at him.
That, and the flies, of course.
He's certain that he is feverish now, and he wonders for the umpteenth time today if this is how he is going to go . . . feverish from bug bites, incarcerated God knows where by God know who.
The rotating blades of the chopper catch him by surprise. He associates the chopper now with lion feedings, and it is far too soon for the large beasts to feed again. He glances upward toward the sound until he sees the helicopter break through the top of the trees. His heart sinks as he is not mentally prepared for another body drop. Not today.
However, the chopper does not head toward the fence. Instead, it hovers just overhead, roughly twenty to twenty-five feet above the captive novelist. From here Castle can see the pilot. He's the same guy, sunglasses and all, and he's smiling. Again.
Castle dodges the small box that breaks on impact from being dropped from the aircraft. He walks toward the contents, now spilled across the ground. He kneels down to the ground, rummaging through a few packets and inspecting them. He recognizes an antibiotic, and an oral steroid, and a hydrocortisone cream. He can't resist a chuckle as he examines his new care package.
"Well, it's obvious they want me alive," he mutters. Suddenly he feels the wind pick up dramatically, and glancing upward, his heart all but stops as he sees the mighty chopper angled down towards him, the blades far too close for comfort. He quickly scrambles away but the chopper smoothly banks toward the cabin and then back towards him, blocking his escape.
He falls backward on the ground, and now us frantically backing away from the angled blades, clearly seeing his new nemesis, Blackman, grinning through the windshield. He backs further and further, scooting away until he screams in agony, his back and neck scraping against the barbed wire fence. The chopper suddenly rights itself and lifts into the sky.
He moves forward off the fence, thankful that no skin stays pulled behind, and crawls the twenty or so feet to the shade of the tree. He lies flat on his face, breathing heavily, knowing that he has made an enemy.
"No matter," he mutters aloud. "Not my friend anyway."
Even though not intended, Phil Blackman's actions only serve to reinforce Castle's resolve. The inner strength, the anger, the deep resolve that was dissipating this morning has re-emerged for the writer, who finally picks himself up into a seated position, and finds himself face to face with his only companions.
The two lions have been attracted to the sound of the helicopter, obviously anticipating another drop. As always, they stand, motionless, staring at Castle.
"Sorry guys," Castle smiles. "No meal today." He stands and walks toward the water well, grabbing a handful of medical packets as he goes. He takes off his pants, shirt and shoes, and fills the bucket to the brim. Dumping it on his head, he feels the sting along his neck and back.
"Jerk," he says under his breath. "You're first on my list when I get out of here," he says, and the thought brings a smile to his face. The silent fury he feels is growing, hardening him. He dumps a second bucket on his body, then opens a packet of cream and rubs it along his arms and legs. A second packet he rubs on his neck, and any area of his back he can reach.
He then opens a package of the steroids, and slams six of the pills down with a slurp of water, knowing that he will reduce the count by one each day. Just this thought reminds him that he's likely going to be here in six days when he finishes the dosage.
"So be it," he tells himself, now more than ever committed to seeing this through.
"You're not going to break me," he says aloud, talking to no one. "You can't break me. I'll be going home. Home to my wife-to-be. I'm going to see my daughter again, my mother."
He glances at the packet of antibiotics, and decides to wait until tonight, knowing he should eat first. It strikes him that he probably should have taken the steroid with food.
"Too late for that," he mutters as he walks, now clad only in his boxers, toward the southern fence again. He stops two feet from the fence, and sits. The two lions simply stare, their low growl rolling across the ground. Suddenly, the larger male sits. A half minute later, the female follows suit, both cats still focused on Richard Castle. Castle cannot help the slow smile that forms on his lips, as he watches the magnificent beasts.
"We're going to be here for a while," he tells them. "I get that. Okay," he smiles, making introductions. "I'm Castle. Richard Castle. My friends call me Rick. Most of them, anyway."
Day 5: Late Evening on the East Coast, on May 16, 2014
Jason Fowler sits on his sofa in his apartment, relaxing with a beer in hand, settling in to watch the late night news. Always a news buff, he is fascinated with what the media determines to be worthy of broadcast. He takes a sip and smiles contentedly, crossing his legs as the blonde news anchor begins her first story. The ringing phone interrupts his peace, bringing a frown to his face.
"Fowler," he answers gruffly without looking at the caller ID.
"Jason," the familiar voice greets him, snapping him to attention. "We have a problem."
"My bad, I didn't realize it was you," he says. "Problem - how so?"
"With our delivery this afternoon."
"Impossible. I spoke to Blackman myself. He said there were no problems."
"The problem, Jason, is Blackman."
"Uh . . . Okay, I don't understand."
"Watch the video feed from 4:45 this afternoon. And as you watch, recall that I was very clear that under no circumstances is our guest to be harmed in any way. I thought that was clearly understood."
"It was . . . It is. Believe me, there is –"
"Watch the video feed, Jason. And find me a new pilot. Tonight."
"I don't . . . I don't understand."
"Am I going to have a problem with you, also, Jason? I am speaking English, aren't I? Find me a new pilot. Tonight. We have another run to make tomorrow."
"No! No ma'am, there is no problem. I will get Paulie, or Turk. Both guys are good and discreet."
"Good. I am glad to hear that."
"What about Blackman? I mean . . . well . . ."
"The twins visited Mr. Blackman this evening."
Jason Fowler shudders at the thought of a visit from the twins. At six feet, four inches and roughly two hundred and forty pounds, the two black men are specimens of ferocity. Identical twins, and almost considered family by his employer, the designated enforcers are turned loose for one purpose and one purpose only.
"I . . . I am sorry to hear that."
"Not as sorry as Mr. Blackman. My pets will eat well tomorrow night. Goodbye Jason."
The click in his ear startles him back to the present, as visions of his colleague's fate assault his senses. Dropping his beer, Jason Fowler barely makes it to the toilet before falling to his knees and relieving himself of the cheeseburger and fries he had just finished minutes ago.