Monster: Chapter 12
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Day 11: On Tangier Island near the Airport, 9:07 a.m.
"I appreciate you meeting with me, Sheriff Tate," she tells him, sipping on some of the worst coffee she has tasted since . . . well, since before Richard Castle had graced the 12th Precinct with a new industrial coffeemaker all of those years ago.
"No problem, Detective," the sheriff replies affably. For him, the coffee is wonderful, one of the better brews he has made. "I apologize that I haven't heard about your boyfriend. I know some of the folks here have read his books and all, but we don't sample much from the mainland in terms of current events. We have a nice easy pace here."
"I understand, Sheriff," she responds quickly.
From her research, she has learned that Tangier Island is exactly that – a simple place. With a population less than seven hundred and fifty, the island is a throwback to a simpler time, with a language and dialect spoken by the people that harkens back to a different culture. Sadly, it is a culture that is disappearing with each generation.
Her research also provided her with a bit of valuable information.
There are a whopping two – count them – two official government personnel on the island – which is actually a small chain of islands. There is a finance officer and a police officer. Sheriff Tate is the lone police resource. The fire force is made up of volunteers from the community, not unlike other small towns. Yeah, there are literally only hundreds of civilians living on the island who are not tourists. It doesn't sound like much. But there are many little islands and inlets here. Plenty of space, protected by marsh and natural water obstacles. Plenty of space to hide a captive from a single, solitary police officer – the lone police presence here. If you're going to kidnap someone and pick a remote place to take them – well, this fits that bill. Last night, she went to sleep confident that he is here. Somewhere in this small isolated chain of islands called Tangier – he is here.
And now, so is she.
"So, what can I do for you, Detective?" Tate asks her.
"As I said, I'm looking for Mr. Castle," she tells him, trying to keep this as official as possible. She doesn't want to come across as this out-of-control, at-the-end-of-her rope fiancée on this wild crusade – which is exactly what she is. She knows that the more in control and professional she keeps this, the better her chances of working with the man across from her. He doesn't have time for nonsense – not being the only authority figure here.
"I know this is going to sound crazy, so I will just show you," she says, taking a DVD from her purse. She had made a copy of the two videos sent to the mayor, and she is going to show the sheriff what she knows – it's one of those 'a picture is worth a thousand words' kind of thing. She inserts the disc into the sheriff's computer, and within seconds, he is watching the first video sent to the mayor. He doesn't say a word as the video ends and Beckett immediately ejects the disc, and places the second disc in place. Closing the DVD door, she waits as the video auto-plays. The video plays and ends, with no comment from the sheriff for a few seconds, before he speaks.
"Hit PLAY again. I want to watch this again," he tells her.
A minute later, both videos now played and viewed by the sheriff, she ejects the second disc, replacing both DVDs into her purse.
"Well, now that is interesting," the small town/island sheriff reflects, rubbing his chin.
"First thoughts?" Kate asks, hopeful that he doesn't see this as a runaway groom frolicking in the safari. He doesn't disappoint.
"Honesty, first glance, my first thought was that there is no crime here," he begins with a snort. "But then I saw the second video."
"What did you see there?" she asks, anxious to hear his report.
"Well, his hair is longer, his beard is growing, and he hasn't changed clothes. Not the kind of vacation I'd think some upscale writer was looking for. It looks like someone wants it to appear like he is there voluntarily. Those little items suggest otherwise."
Kate smiles, having seen exactly the same thing.
"But the bigger issue is the cats," he muses, as he sticks his hand out to her. "Let me see that second disk again."
She gives him the disc a second time, and he whistles softly as he places the disc in the tray, closing the tray door.
"Watch this," he says, as he forwards a few seconds to the spot he wants.
"Look at the larger lion," he tells her. "The male. What do you see?"
Kate looks, then slides the viewing bar slightly backwards, and views again. She's missed it, whatever he has seen. She slides the bar back a third time when he speaks, pointing her in the right direction.
"The male – around his neck hairs. You see it?"
Now she does. How did they miss that?
"Blood," she notes, her mind now racing. Why would there be blood?
"Yep," he smiles, as he sits back in his chair. "Dried blood. Those guys have just been fed, I'd say within a day or two. Blood is barely there, wearing off. But it's there. Which explains the fence. Because whatever those two cats ate, I'd take a gander it was alive when they went at it. You don't get all that blood residue if you're feeding an animal red meat."
Kate nods appreciatively. Yeah, she had missed that.
"But doesn't explain why your man is just sitting there with them," Tate continues. "No one in their right mind is going to sit that close to those killing machines – unless there are some very extenuating circumstances."
Kate reflects that she has likely underestimated the small-town sheriff – a mistake she won't repeat. It's actually good news, too, as he may prove to be far more helpful than she initially thought.
"Two lions were . . . believe this or not, hijacked," she tells him. "Seajacked actually, over a month ago just south of you here in the Chesapeake Bay. Based upon the information I collected from the captain whose boat was commandeered, along with the lions, I believe they were brought here."
"What makes you think that?"
"The captain told me that he heard his perpetrators refer to Tangier Island, and needing to get here quickly. That's enough of a smoking gun for me."
"Me, too," the sheriff agrees, nodding his head. "But now the bad news. Let's assume your little kitty cats are here, and that your fiancée is being held here as well. I know we are a small set of islands – but that's just it. We are a set of islands, heavy marsh, and tough to get around. Most of the islands are connected by bridges, but it's going to take us a few days to do a thorough search. Between these islands and Goose Island . . . well, the possibilities aren't endless, but there are more than a few."
"I noticed you said 'we', Sheriff," she smiles, genuinely grateful. "But I'd rather you not be a part of this. I don't know what I am going to find – and plus, you're a one man show here. You have to stay available for your normal wear and tear that I know happens here on your islands. I just need a chopper, or a plane, and a pilot."
"Well, that might not be the least expensive –"
"Money is no object, Sheriff, believe me," she interrupts. "I just need a pilot, and probably a rifle."
"I assume with tranquilizers . . . those are endangered species you're talking about hunting," he tells her.
"What I am after walks on two legs," she smiles. He shudders at the lack of emotion she shows as she starts gathering her thoughts for her next steps. "Now, who's the best pilot out here?"
"That would be Hopkins," he replies, "but he's gone to the mainland until tomorrow. He's not only the best pilot, but he knows this area as well as I do. You'll need him – and he's worth the wait."
She frowns, not wanting to waste another day in her search, but his logic is unassailable. Sensing her conflict, Tate adds his final thoughts, which sway her to his line of thinking.
"Look, Detective," he begins. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but you say that your fiancée has been gone for ten days. If that's true well, he's either dead or he's alive. From what you told me, and what I can see, whoever has him is keeping him alive. All to say, one day isn't going to kill him. Bad choice of words, I know, but I think you can see my point."
Nodding her head, she reluctantly has to agree with the man. But sitting here, twiddling her thumbs isn't an option either.
"Do you have any good maps of the area that I can start studying?" she asks.
"Yeah, I do," he replies, and I can get them to you in a jiffy. But another thing you might consider is Barry Gimble down at the docks. He's normally down there, having a drink, but he would have noticed any strange boats docking, and any stranger cargo unloading. We're a small town," he smiles. "We tend to notice that type of thing."
"I'm sure you do," Kate returns the smile. 'Gimble, you say?"
"Yep, just head down to the docks. You'll find him easy enough," Tate tells her as he hands her a stack of maps of the islands in the region. "These will help. I trust this isn't the last time I will see these maps."
"I'll take good care of them, Sheriff," she agrees. "I appreciate your help, I really do. Oh, and Sheriff Tate," she adds, "I don't know who I can trust here, so I'd –"
"No worries," he tells her. "Mums the word. I know pretty much everyone here, but there are tourists. The one thing I will do is discreetly check the hotels to see if there is anyone who is here for an extended stay."
"Good idea," she agrees. It's a good first step. Anyone who is here watching Castle will either be right there with him, or close by in one of the hotels. She stands, smiling, and takes her leave, stepping out into the bright sunlight. Her smile leaves, as she feels the morning sun beating down on the back of her neck. It's going to be a hot day already, and she idly wonders just what type of conditions he must be stuck in.
If he's here.
Day 11: New York City, at 11:22 a.m.
Martha Rodgers and her granddaughter, Alexis, are on the elevator, their grocery cart alongside them. They've spent the last hour of the morning down the street at the local grocery store, buying food and just getting fresh air. The aura in the loft – according to the matriarch – was getting far too negative. They each stand, holding hands, but quiet – each lost in their own thoughts when the elevator door opens. They walk the final few steps to the front door, Alexis pushing the makeshift cart. Seconds later, the door swings open and Martha finds her voice again.
"Home at last," she mutters. It's not much of a home right now – not without the owner gone. Immediately, however, she senses they are not alone, and glances toward the kitchen area. On a barstool sits Jackson Hunt.
She struggles to find her breath, her words, when Alexis runs to the older man. Her father's disappearance has brought her own ordeal from a year ago back into sharp focus, front and center on her mind. Seeing the man who – behind the scenes – was responsible for her release is too much. Within seconds, her face is buried in his chest – a family scene he is not familiar – or comfortable = with.
"Grandpa," she says softly, not entirely comfortable with calling him this, but not comfortable with calling him anything else either. Martha hesitates until the silver-haired man from her past extends a hand toward her. The pain she sees in his eyes makes her decision for her, and she slowly walks into his embrace with her their granddaughter.
For a few seconds none of them say a word, allowing their breathing and the simplicity of the tears that stain all three faces communicate for them. Hunt holds tightly onto the two women who he had long ago given up on holding in such a way. Of course, the circumstance that has instigated this family reunion is anything but joyous. Finally, Martha breaks the silence as only she can.
"I never thought I would say these words, but I am so happy to see you," she tells him wistfully, earning a tightening of the embrace from both Hunt and Alexis. Both recognize how difficult this is for the family matriarch.
"I know that I owe you – both of you – the apology of all apologies, but for the sake of time, let's delay that for another day, which I promise you both, is coming," he begins, still holding tightly to the two women.
"I assume that the carnage we are hearing about on television can be placed at your feet," Martha muses aloud. She says this with no malice or ill intent, and notes with satisfaction that he takes in in the spirit it is given.
"Guilty as charged," he tells her with a chuckle that resembles ice cubes crinkling in a small glass. For Alexis, it is a bit disarming. For her grandmother, it is precisely within character as she has imagined the man who helped bring their son into the world. The clear menace in which he carries himself is a thing to behold, indeed.
"Grandpa," Alexis begins, searching for the right words. He stops her, thankfully, before she can botch this up.
"Alexis, yes, I've done some horrible things to some horrible people. Trust me when I say that what I gave to them is a fraction of what they have dallied out to others during their all-too-long existence on earth."
His words, how he chooses them, the way he thinks – it is a throwback to another time, Alexis thinks. A time that she can only read about in books – a time that no longer exists.
"Were any of them associated with Richard's disappearance?" Martha asks.
"No," he replies without emotion. "I had no idea where to start, no intel to go on" he admits, "so I started to rattle a few cages."
"Rattle a few cages?" Martha exclaims, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. Alexis, however, has a much calmer reaction. She has seen, first-hand, the handiwork of her grandfather. The mention of the word cages takes her back to Paris. She's in a cage, all right, with strange men speaking a strange language all around her. Suddenly, her father appears – captured by her captors as well. And before she can get her head around that development, her father utters those words that still echo in her mind to this day.
"Get down," he had said without warning, and all hell broke loose around them. An explosion, then another, and another, with human beings losing their heads, their faces, their arms. Seconds later, she is running through the carnage, dragged by her father, unable to take her eyes away from the human horrors laying on the floor around them.
Yes, Alexis knows what her grandfather is capable of when his family is attacked. Hearing the newscasters lambast the violence does nothing to change her opinion of the man holding her now. She vaguely hears his conversation with her grandmother.
". . . don't care what it takes, Martha, or who I have to hurt. I'm going to find him. Someone knows where he is. I'm just letting them know that the cost of their silence will be staggering. Eventually I will hit close enough to home."
"But . . . but you aren't like this. I know this is our son, but the man I knew –"
"The man you knew is not here right now, Martha," he interrupts. "In this life, there are moments that make monsters of us. Don't be deceived – we are facing a monster. So for now, I, too am a monster. I am who I need to be, until I know longer need to be."
Martha Rodgers struggles with his simple explanation. Alexis Castle does not, as she tightens her grip on the man, earning a raised eyebrow from the older woman.
"I understand," the young redhead tells him softly, and he knows that she understands. All too well, she understands.
Day 11: That evening, on an island in the Tangier Islands at the Compound, at 7:23 p.m.
Richard Castle falls to the ground, raising his hands defiantly to the skies in victory. He tries to hold his exultant whoop inside, but is unsuccessful. Who can blame him? After two days of searching, he has found the video camera.
It is by pure luck that he has found it. He's been searching for the past hour as the sun began to set, and just a few minutes ago – by sheer providence – he was staring absently with frustration at the tree trunk of the lone tree inside the compound, desperately trying to resist the urge to punch the trunk – and break a few bones in his hand in the process.
As he glanced away, he saw it. Just for an instant, and his mind flew back decades in time to a Sesame Street routine he loved as a little boy.
"One of these things is not like the others," played in his mind as he caught the sunlight reflecting off a piece of the tree trunk. Yeah, something doesn't belong here. Tree trunks are magnificent things. They are massive, they are hard, they are edgy, they are many things.
But they don't reflect light.
That is, they aren't supposed to reflect light. But this small vertical piece of the trunk did just that. It reflected sunlight. That – in nature, of course – is a physical impossibility. He retraced this steps with his eyes, and sure enough, there it was again. A small glint.
He had touched the offending piece of trunk, and yeah, it feels different. It feels kind of plastic, almost metallic. He followed the smoothness upward, through the myriad of branches. It had been – well, let's just say it's been awhile since he has climbed a tree, yet climb it he does, careful to keep his balance as he goes up, climbing higher. As he climbs, he keeps one hand coming back to the smooth piece of trunk, no more than an inch across, moving upward until suddenly the texture on his fingers changes, roughening and becoming more tree-like.
"There we go," he had thought to himself, smiling. The lining stops here, at this level. He follows the branches individually as they branch outward until he finds one with the same smooth texture. Smiling, he follows it toward the edge of the branch, noticing that it is facing the open area where he typically is seated.
"Yeah, this makes sense," he thought again to himself, now paying particular attention to the leaves and branch structure, before he saw it. No bigger than a small bottle of prescription pills, and easily hidden in camouflage within the branch and leaves, with a brown wire sticking out.
"Power," he thinks to himself. "Gotcha," he smiles, hastily backpedalling down the tree, and falling to his knees in exuberance. Standing back up, he does a little happy dance, turning in two complete circles of joy before looking upward yet again.
"Thank you," he says aloud, a bright smile on his face. Now he has to think this through. He can't be hasty, he can't screw this up. Whatever plan he comes up with, he knows he is likely to only get one shot at this. Being careful, and considering that they may be trying to watch him now, he slowly moves back in front of the camera, and sits in his normal spot, glancing at his friends. They seem to be a bit agitated, no doubt confused by the little joyful jig he had performed minutes ago.
"Act normal," he tells himself, muttering under his breath, "and for God's sake, don't look back at the camera." Such a simple task proves harder than it sounds, now that he knows where it is. He closes his eyes, trying to clear his head. A good plan, that's what he needs. And he is in no hurry. He doesn't have to come up with it tonight – but he sure as heck is starting to walk down that road. There is power running from the camera, down the tree trunk, to the ground. Tomorrow, he will start digging at the base of the tree, following the wire to the source of the power. Then he will figure out what to do next.
"Soon," he tells himself, as he closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall asleep sitting just feet from the hungry beasts.