Monster: Chapter 6
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
Day 6: At Castle's Loft in New York City, Early Morning, May 18, 2014
She sits in front of the large, expansive window in the living room, staring out into the street at . . . nothing. Her mind a complete blank, her eyes blurred by tears that refuse to leave their nesting ground. Holding on to her cup of coffee with both hands, she struggles to make sense of the past week.
Just a week ago – has it only been seven days? Just seven days ago, on Mother's Day, about this very same time, in this very same room, she sat in this very same spot, holding a cup of the same coffee. The only thing different is that seven days ago, her son sat across from her. Handsome and smiling as always. And sitting next to her were fresh roses with a single stalk standing tall, her Mother's Day gift that was waiting for her when she awoke and found her way downstairs to this chair . . . her chair.
The flowers – oh, they are still there, next to her. The smell has dampened, and the small leaves are just beginning to droop. But she can't bear the thought of parting with the arrangement. Not now. Not yet. Not until he is back home, safe and sound, where he belongs.
She doesn't hear the detective walk silently behind her, unaware of her presence until the younger woman's soft hands rest on her shoulders, just below the brilliant strands of red.
"Still no word," Martha intones, still staring outside into the street.
"I know," Kate acknowledges, herself now searching for what holds the older woman's interest. It takes a few seconds before Kate realizes that there is nothing there. Nothing to see. And that's the sadness that overtakes both women. She stares at the still barely alive arrangement, and then glances over at the single white rose, in the vase on the coffee table, adorned by tulips. Castle had given it to her last weekend in honor of her mother. Long gone, but "still living vibrantly through her daughter", Castle had told her has he presented her with something she had never received - her first Mother's Day present.
"You're a mother-figure, a role model for my daughter, and have been for a couple of years now," he had said, leaving the room silent, with nary an eye misting as he had used the opportunity to sing the praises of the three women in his life.
And now his loft – his home – their home – is silent again, but the simmering joy that hovered just underneath last weekend is gone, replaced by a hopeless melancholy that neither women seems able – or even desiring – to shake at the moment.
"I love you, Kate," Martha whispers, a single tear flowing down her cheek.
"I love you, too, Martha," Kate replies, her voice far stronger than she feels, but emboldened simply to provide strength to the woman sitting below her who, for the first time in almost seven years, looks all too frail to the detective.
She pats the woman on the shoulder, and then walks to the kitchen island, and fires up her laptop computer. Within seconds, she is gone, her mind focused, her eyes locked in to the only piece of evidence she has, the only string she can still grasp, as she watches the video again, for the hundredth time or so.
"It's got to be here," she says softly. "Something is here."
Day 6: Somewhere on one of the isolated Tangier Islands, Early Morning, May 18, 2014
Dear Kate,
I still remember your face. How your hair, their curls, hang softly down, shadowing the most expressive eyes I have ever seen. I still remember your smell, after you have washed your hair, and when you awaken in the morning. I thought I smelled you this morning when I awoke. For a moment, I thought I was back home – with you. I reached out my arm to find you, but – of course – I was swinging at air. No matter. I am six days into this, and your face, your touch, your very breath remains vivid in my mind. For that, I am thankful.
Yours,
Castle
He walks to the box and drops the marker back into it. He glances at the wall, brightened by the morning sunlight that fights through the single window in his small cabin. The wall now has almost ten letters, ten messages that he has written in the past six days. He has decided that for as long as he is here, he will write to her. It occurred to him last night that he may die here. Oh, whoever has done this wants him alive, and is trying hard to keep it that way. But this is a dangerous place. Stuff happens. He has no illusions of his chances of making it out of here alive. But there is one thing he knows.
This place will be found. Someday. He may be long gone by then, long dead before anyone comes across this God-forsaken place. And when they do, he hopes they have a big rifle, or they aren't going to make it into his little camp-from-hell, as he now calls it. They won't make it past the two guards that stand on the other side of the fence.
Yeah, someday someone will come across this place. And when they do, they will know that he was here. They will know that this was where Richard Castle lived his final days. But most of all, they will know that he died still loving the woman he was supposed to marry. He died thinking about her every day. They will know that he didn't lose her, her face was ever with him, giving him strength, and maybe just a little hope.
They will know that in this place of deep and desolate solitude, he was not alone.
And they will tell her. Who knows, perhaps she will come to this place, once it is discovered, and see for herself the strength she willed to him, and how she was so far away, but right there with him. He hopes it gives her some level of comfort.
He smiles at the various writings on the wall, but then flops back onto the bed. He knows he should get up, he knows the regimen he has created. He knows the value in sticking with this regimen. But today, he is just plain tired. It is day six, he knows. Lying in the bed, he finds himself giggling to himself.
"God created the earth in six days," he chuckles to himself. "Six days sure didn't seem like all that long, reading it in a chapter."
He closes his eyes, shouting down the voice in his brain telling him to get up, clean up, eat his portion, and exercise.
"And on the seventh day, he rested," he laughs to himself. He sighs comfortably, content to doze away into the morning, when his inner monologue finally bludgeons him back into consciousness.
"But this is day six, soldier," the voice tells him. "Now get off your ass and out into the camp!"
He startles back awake, shaking the cobwebs, and the disillusionment, off from his head.
"Okay, okay, you don't have to shout about it," he mutters to himself. Rising, he walks outside toward the well, and glances upward at the sky. It's cloudy today, and markedly cooler than the past few days. Thankful for the small victories, he smiles, picks up the bucket and pumps the cool water into the pail.
"Up and at 'em" he says softly, dumping the contents on top of his head, steeling himself for the day ahead.
Day 6: A Large Catholic Cathedral in New York City, Mid-Morning, May 18, 2014
He glances down at the small hand that holds his own. The singing from the huge choir toward the front awakens her from her slumber time and time again. He glances at his wife, who simply smiles at him. She knows that though he holds his daughter's hand, though he smiles at her – his mind is light years away. She risks a second glance beyond her husband at his best friend, his darker skin standing out in contrast to that of her husband.
She notes that the two men hold hands, tightly gripped, and realizes that they are in a conversation with the owner of this building. She shudders at the steel determination etched in both men's faces. The singing finally stops, and the short, stout priest comes forward. Javier Esposito, however, stands, and her husband stands with him.
"Got to go, Jenny," Kevin Ryan tells his wife. "Things to do," he mutters as he walks away with his friend. She simply nods her head, understanding. She came here for the service. They came for a prayer. Having accomplished that, the two men walk down the aisle toward the front door of the cathedral. Once the door is open and they are through, Esposito takes out his phone, and punches a contact.
"On our way," he tells her.
"Thanks, Javi. The door will be unlocked," Kate Beckett tells him.
"Find anything?" he asks her, knowing the answer already. If she had found something, she would have texted them.
"Not yet," she replies quickly, "but I need another set of eyes."
"Be there soon," he tells her, and clicks off. The two men hail a cab, and are on their way to the loft as the taxi pulls away - screeching - from the curbside.