The Long Game: 5
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
Richard Castle's Home in the Hamptons, 4:05 p.m., March 10, 2012
Jackson Hunt works quietly and quickly, with efficiency forged in years of field experience. He has sent Richard Castle back into the house, to "keep Martha and Alexis busy." That, of course, was code for "don't let them come into the garage while I clean up."
And this is going to be a serious clean-up job.
He has just cut off all five digits from each of the hands of the now-deceased Scott Dunn. This message he is going to send cannot be ambiguous. He knows their new, common enemy very well. This message has to be well-articulated. He is committed to ensure that it is just that.
He places each of the fingers in a small, insulated box filled with ice. He nods his head as he verifies the lack of fingerprints on the digits. Along with his other clues, there will be no doubt as to the identity of the victim. Their enemy is a very smart man. It will not take him long to figure it out.
He walks to the front passenger door, and opens it quickly, unlatching the glove compartment box, and retrieving a small bag. He brings the bag back and dumps it into a small plastic box along with the missing fingers. He goes to the back seat, and opens a duffle bag, and quickly retrieves two other small pieces. He smiles as he places them in the box with the other items. Satisfied that the message will be received, he closes the box, and tapes it securely.
Taking a quick look around, and satisfied that nothing is out of place, he closes the hatch lid, and climbs into the front seat of the SUV, and opens the garage door as he powers the vehicle to life. As he backs out of the garage, he dials a number on his cell phone – a burner phone of course. Two rings later, a familiar female voice answers.
"Ready for me?" he asks.
"Where?" the voice asks.
"The grocery store. I will be there in seven minutes," he tells her.
"I will be there in five," she tells him. "Where is the small package?"
"In the trunk area, alongside the larger package."
"Got it," she says as she disconnects.
He takes a deep breath, focusing his thoughts on the next phase of his plan. His son's involvement has changed things only slightly, in his mind. He nods his head, and allows himself to finally relax – at least for the next seven minutes – as he drives to the grocery store.
Six minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot. She has been waiting, and drives and parks her virtually identical black SUV in the parking space next to him. She immediately gets out, as does he and he leaves his vehicle running. She walks past him and gets into the front seat of his SUV, while he walks past her and turns to head into the grocery store.
"You know what to do," he reminds her as he passes her, and it is totally unnecessary.
"No worries – go take care of things," she tells him.
"Thank you, Elena," he says with a smile, and she almost returns the smile as she closes the door and puts the car in gear and drives away. Almost.
He continues walking toward the front door of the grocery store, roughly thirty yards away, and doesn't look back. He doesn't need to. She is the consummate professional, and has never let him down in over fifteen years of working with each other – sometimes he at her command, and other times, like now, where she does his bidding. Theirs is an easy alliance, built upon years of trust in the most trying of circumstances. Theirs is an alliance which transcends political parties, and it transcends government initiatives.
Ten minutes later, he walks out of the store with a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. He unlocks the SUV that she arrived in, and throws the bag in the back seat. He guns the engine, and heads back to his son's beach residence, smiling broadly as he considers the reaction his 'gift' will likely incite.
Senator William Bracken's Home in Columbia Heights, Washington, D.C., 8:15 p.m., March 12, 2012
Senator William Bracken arrives home somewhat early this evening from Capitol Hill. His wife is pleasantly surprised that he is able to get home early for once, and is almost ready to go. He has told her that he already made reservations at their favorite place in Foggy Bottom. He considers changing clothes, decides against it, then changes his mind and follows her into their bedroom, untying his dark red and blue tie as he walks into the closet.
"By the way, you have a package, Will," she tells him, as she sits back at the vanity to apply the remainder of her make-up.
"Sent here?" he asks, surprised. He is careful to make sure that most any package he expects will be sent to his office, where his trusted staff will know how to handle. Then again, Liz is no stranger to the Senator's rather draconian methods. He met his wife during their second year of college, and she quickly decided that there were far worse roles to play than that of a power wife on the American political circuit. After graduation, the two married, and she stepped into her role.
The blonde-haired beauty looks to be an exquisite, loyal housewife who fiercely supports her husband and his ambitions. Those looks, however, prove to be deceiving for unsuspecting enemies of the Senator, who have no idea about the ruthless edge the woman hides, nor the ambitions she keeps between her husband and herself. Those close to the Senator on his staff, however, are well aware not to cross this beautiful woman.
"I thought it odd, also," she tells him. "No postage."
"That is curious," he agrees, knowing immediately that this is a package that someone has hand-delivered. Hand-delivered to his place of residence.
"I placed it in the cabinet in the garage," she tells him.
"Good woman," he thinks to himself. "Thank you, love. I will go check on it now," he says, dropping the tie and selecting a more colorful tie with green hues, opting to wear the same suit.
He walks out of the kitchen area through the door to the porte cochere, and on to the detached two-car garage to the side. Once in the garage, he shuts the door, turns on the light and heads straight to the cabinet along the door-side wall. Retrieving the package, he looks at the brown wrapping paper covering what he immediately recognizes as a box inside. There are no postal markings – no writing, in fact, save his name and address.
He goes to the wall and retrieves a filter mask, and places it over his mouth and nose. One can never be too careful, not in this town. The wrapping comes off harmlessly, and Bracken slowly opens the plastic box, taking the lid off the corners carefully. When Bracken opens the gift box, he sees a clear baggie with what appear to be bullets, and a smaller container. Ignoring the baggie, he removes the smaller box. It is somewhat cold to the touch, immediately setting off his senses. He already recognizes this to be a message. At this point, he cannot be sure what the message is or who it is from.
It doesn't matter. He will find out soon enough.
He opens the smaller box, and is greeted by the sight of ten severed fingers.
It's a ballsy message – he will give them that – whoever 'they' are. He smiles, knowing that somewhere along the line, he has obviously rattled the cage of a potentially worthy adversary. He looks forward to finding out just who this person is – or so he thinks.
He notices a few other items in the larger box along with the severed fingers, and decides, at this point, that a closer – and more private – investigation is warranted. He takes out his phone and touches his wife's picture, ringing her cell phone.
"Problems?" she asks. She knows he is calling about the package.
"Maybe," he tells her. "Give me ten minutes."
"Okay. Want me to call and push back the reservation?"
"No, no. This won't take long, love" he promises, and then disconnects the call.
Drawing his head back from the box, he replaces the lid atop the box, and walks slowly toward the opposite wall of the garage, walking around the parked 2011 Mercedes sedan and ducks behind the car. He reaches under his workbench and flips a lever. A puff of dust escapes as a small six foot by six foot portion of the floor partially drops out, revealing a descending set of stairs that drop out of site. He takes the stairs, the lights in his small cavern coming on with the motion of his movements. Eight steps later, at the bottom of the stairs, he flips another lever which pushes the upstairs floor back up and into place.
Anyone who came into the garage would be completely unaware of the hidden room underneath their feet. Years ago, he had contracted with a small, family-owned local outfit to build this hidden, downstairs panic room after he had the original garage torn down. As a way of thanking them, he had treated the family to an all-expenses trip to the Bahamas. Unfortunately, a boating accident just off shore from the island took the lives of the entire family. That sort of thing just happens sometimes. The Senator made great headlines as he publically grieved for the family that he had grown close to as they rebuilt his garage.
He sits at his metal desk, and re-opens the box, now taking the contents out for a more thorough examination. He starts with the small baggie. The fingers are obvious. He will come back to them.
Inside the baggie are five used bullets. Now that is a strange one. Even stranger, there are letters on the bullets. It takes him less than ten seconds of moving the bullets around to figure out the riddle.
The bullets spell the name "NIKKI".
Earlier, two days prior, as Jackson Hunt had placed the bullets into the baggie back at Richard Castle's garage, he had to stifle a chuckle as he imagined the people at the 12th precinct going through boxes, wondering how – and when - those bullets disappeared. He had managed to retrieve them a week ago, before he arranged for Dunn to get snatched.
Bracken takes a second look, as if a second look was necessary for confirmation. The bullets indeed spell out "NIKKI".
This raises an eyebrow. Nikki Heat. Better known to him as 'that fucking Detective Kate Beckett'. Now more than just curious, he takes another look at the fingers. There are no rings, no ring marks, no distinguishing marks –
No distinguishing marks! He reaches into the desk and retrieves a pair of sterile, thin nylon gloves and places them on his hands. Now he takes a few of the fingers out of the insulated container. Yep - sure enough. No fingerprints.
"Hmmm," he mutters, his eyebrows rising again.
He knows everything there is to know about Kate Beckett. And one of the things he knows is that two years ago, a psychopath had turned his sights on her, and the bullets used in his first killing spelled out the name 'NIKKI'. He also knows that this serial killer had made a second move on the detective – this time a bit more artistically done. He's obviously heard the reports that someone had sprung the killer on his way to arraignment, and honestly, the news had given Senator Bracken a good laugh.
"I'm sure the detective is in full panic mode now," he had mused to himself, smiling. Now, he has a decidedly different reaction, because it is not a large leap of logic to assume that the fingers inside this container belong to Scott Dunn. The lack of fingerprints is a strong clue, along with the bullets he used.
His thoughts now transition to the writer. Richard Castle.
He's seen the news reports, and heard the rumors that the novelist might have been involved with Dunn's abduction. That doesn't compute with him. The writer doesn't have it in him. More often than not, he's hidden behind the detective. Still, he is probably considered – at a minimum – a person of interest to the feds. And the fingers in the box tell him that – at best – Scott Dunn is going to have problems eating and writing in the future. At worst?
A fairly sinister smile paints the Senator's face, as he begins to wonder exactly how much he may have underestimated the writer. Then he sees them – the two small pieces in the box.
One is a small, white rook chess piece, and the inference is unmistakable. Castle. He takes the chess piece out of the box and places it on the desk table in front of him. He looks back into the box.
The second item is a small pewter dragon – also unmistakable as well. He retrieves the small namesake of his whispered nickname among the less savory elements and places it next to the other items.
The bullets spelling 'NIKKI' tell him who the fingers belong to. The lack of fingerprints pretty much confirms it. The rook and the dragon pieces are a clear message as well. They are a warning.
Richard Castle is challenging him?
Okay, he has to admit this is a surprise, but is he really going to back away from a challenge from the writer? True, the message sent is one that he never would have guessed the writer had in him. Gruesome, ruthless. He tries to imagine – unsuccessfully - the novelist extracting these fingers from Dunn's hands. He doesn't have it in him.
Then he re-thinks his position.
"I guess a man is capable of anything once you threaten his children," he mutters under his breath, nodding his head in grudging admiration. This will be interesting, sure, but nothing to lose any sleep over. The question in his mind, however, is 'why'?
"Why now?" he wonders. "I had nothing to do with Scott Dunn. Why bring the fight to me?" It then occurs to him that perhaps the writer has become aware of his new plans for the detective. Plans that likely are going to include the writer. He immediately dismisses the notion. How would he possibly know those plans?
He glances back into the larger box, and now he sees the final item. Somehow, in the poor lighting of his garage upstairs, he had missed the final item. It is a small, single, smooth stone.
Senator William Bracken feels a sudden chill – and it briefly unnerves him. Very, very few things – and even fewer people – scare the Senator. But this man does.
The man behind the stone. His calling card in dark world of spooks and spies, if you believe that kind of thing - which he does. These are the men and women who move behind the scenes, answering more to an ideal than a person. When these men and women are turned loose, there is no recalling them. There is no 'oops' or 'hold that order' with these people. Once an order is given, there is no way to even contact them. They contact you once the order is fulfilled.
And the only thing worse than when these people are assigned, is when these people make their own assignments. Oh, it's against the written and unwritten code, and they know it - everyone knows it. But everyone also knows that every now and then, someone makes the unimaginably painful error of crossing one of these assassins in a personal way. And when they exact their revenge, it is brutal beyond measure.
And now, the assassin behind the stone has just sent him a very clear warning: Stay away from Kate Beckett, and stay away from Richard Castle.
Or, is it something entirely different? His right hand massages his chin, as he falls deeper into thought, calculating the various possibilities. He did not get where he is by jumping to the first conclusion that popped into his head. He won't make that mistake now, either.
The stone and the bullets? Are they connected in a deeper way? Is Beckett connected in any way to the Stone. He considers this for a moment, and discounts it straight away. That does not seem plausible. Kate Beckett's mother is dead, and her father is a recovering alcoholic. He is completely harmless. Bracken recalls almost taking the man out simply to send a message to the detective, a few weeks after her shooting, while she was recovering in her dad's cabin, thinking she was safely tucked away. If only she knew . . .
No, there isn't a connection there. She has no brothers or sisters. Neither parent is a threat.
That leaves the Rook. Even the signature move the piece plays utters his name. Castle.
The Rook, the Dragon and the Stone. He idly moves the pieces around on his desk, whistling as he considers these new options. "Winds of Change" has always been a favorite of his, one of the power ballads from an earlier time. He unknowingly whistles the song's iconic intro as he often does when he is deep in thought.
Suddenly he stops. He has the items positioned so that the smooth stone is first, next to the chess piece. The pewter dragon he puts off to the side along with the bullets.
Is there a connection here, he wonders?
Richard Castle lives with his mother. Or rather, his mother lives with him. Whatever. The fool Dunn could have eliminated her, but he always did get caught up in his stupid little games. But Richard Castle's father?
Nothing is known about his father. He disappeared before his child was even born.
Hmmm – why would a man do that – have zero contact with his son so that his son would never even know him - even after his son has made millions of dollars – and Richard Castle has done that in spades. Even after his son has become highly famous, and what even he would consider wealthy, the deadbeat never even comes back to try and reconcile, even if for no other reason than pure avarice? That doesn't compute . . . unless . . .
He nods his head slowly – this is making sense. This falls into place nicely. Well, not nicely, but certainly logically. He – for the first time – considers his actions against an over-zealous, crusading attorney over a decade ago in a new light. He finds himself now wondering if those actions have ultimately drawn in the son of one of the most feared assassins in the country – and one of the few that Senator William Bracken knows that he somehow, cannot pull under his control.
No, this is not good at all, not good at all. No one – absolutely no one – has come into the crosshairs of the Stone and walked away. Bracken is arrogant, he is ruthless. He is many things. But he is not a fool. He does not consider his chances of being the first to survive an engagement with this assassin to be to his liking.
"This does change things," he tells himself, as he starts to replace all of the items, putting them back into the box. He places the box in one of the drawers of the metal desk, and stands, discarding the nylon gloves and then shaking imaginary dust from his pants. He walks toward the stairs, and hits the lever, causing the floor up top to fall open again. He walks up the steps, and bends, to use the lever under his workbench one final time to close the floor.
Within seconds, he is back in the house, and it strikes him that he wasn't even aware that he was out of the garage, or even outside walking under the porte cochere. That in itself, is telling enough for the man.
"Is everything all right?" he wife asks him, her beautiful eyes masking the menace hovering just underneath.
"For now, yes," he lies to her. He's not sure. He's not sure of anything. They will talk tonight, in whispered tones over dinner. For now, he wants to get out of his house, out of his home.
"He knows where we live," he thinks to himself, and for the first time in his political adult life, the dragon feels the sting of being on the other end of the hunt.