The Long Game: Chapter 6
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
Richard Castle's Home in the Hamptons, 9:00 a.m., March 13, 2012
"So, here is what's going to happen next, son," Jackson Hunt tells his son, Richard Castle. The two men sit in the den of Castle's home in the Hamptons, currently undisturbed by Castle's mother and daughter. The past two days have been a whirlwind, a contradiction of emotions for both father and son.
Jackson Hunt is getting used to the idea of finally, finally – after over forty years – being able to interact directly with the son he has watched – and protected – from afar for so long. Even if this is just a brief aberration, which deep down Hunt knows is likely the case, he is working hard to maximize his time, however limited it may be, with one Richard Castle. The downside? He knows that becoming visible, even ever so briefly, has its disadvantages. He is doing his best to keep an invisible profile, but all it takes is for the wrong enemy to put two and two together regarding he and Richard Castle.
Bracken? He's not worried about him. Bracken plays the political games behind the scenes. Hunt can do that with the best of them. No, Hunt is worried about other cat and mouse people out there like himself. People who, once turned loose, operate with a more direct, precise approach.
Richard Castle, for his part, is getting used to the idea that he actually has a father – one who exists, who is alive, and who is standing right in front of him. His mind accepts the logic of why his father left, of why his father stayed away for over four decades until now. His brain accepts this logic. His heart does not.
It hasn't been an easy time for either of them, and Martha and Alexis certainly have not made things any easier. Martha is both rejuvenated by, and wary of, the prodigal father who has returned out of nowhere. A forty-year hiatus surprisingly hasn't killed off all of the feelings that have lain dormant, and now they simmer out of control for her. At the same time, how in the world do you trust a man that has up and left once, and is someone you fully expect to do the same again?
Answer: you don't.
The two men sit in the comfort – and relative darkness – of Castle's den. Hunt is taking the time to fully explain what will likely happen next in this deadly game of human chess.
"In two days, maybe three, depending upon the currents, Scott Dunn's body is going to find its way to civilization, just north of here," Hunt tells him, causing a look of surprise and worry to crease the brow of his son. "It will come ashore somewhere between Bridgeport and West Haven, Connecticut. Far enough from you that nothing can be tied directly back to you, but close enough so that suspicion on your involvement will certainly increase and likely get out of control fairly quickly."
"Why?" Castle asks, stating the obvious question. "Why not just dispose of the body where no will ever find it? Doesn't that make more sense?"
"Not really," Hunt replies, and then seeing Castle's expression, realizes he needs to elaborate. "There are a few good reasons, actually."
He stands as he makes his way across the den to the ledge over the fireplace, where he has left their small plate of fruit. Grabbing the plate, he begins nibbling on apple slices before continuing.
"One – Alexis needs closure. Martha probably does as well. Her nightmares aren't going to just stop on their own, or because of whatever couch time you are paying for, for her," he says, glancing at his son to ensure he understands that no offense is meant.
"Knowing that the man who took her is dead, knowing that the man who took the both of them is dead, well, that will be pretty damn important for them, trust me." He watches his son nod his head slightly, in some understanding, but he hasn't bought in completely. Not yet.
"Richard, it is one thing to know that he probably won't come back to hurt you. It is another thing entirely knowing he absolutely cannot come back. I mean to give them that assurance."
Castle opens his mouth to begin to speak, but is stymied as his father raises a hand, stopping him from speaking – just yet.
"Two – the message we sent to Senator Bracken a few days ago, it needs an exclamation point."
"Ten fingers wasn't an exclamation point? Castle asks incredulously, now standing and making his way over to the fruit plate as well.
"Not for William Bracken, it wasn't." Hunt holds the plate out to Castle, allowing him to grab a few orange slices in his hands. He watches as the younger son casually tosses a slice into his mouth, before grabbing a second slice.
"But a body washing up on the shore," Hunt smiles knowingly, "well, that is another thing. Trust me, the Senator does not expect that this body will ever show up. No way he expects this body to make an appearance, not with the massive visibility this case is already garnering."
He checks his son for any hint of misunderstanding. Finding none, Hunt continues again.
"He knows that a message has been sent to him, and he knows that you, Richard, are a part of that message. He suspects you will not wish to implicate yourself with the police. So he will never expect the body to turn up. In my business, a body is never found unless the perpetrator wants the body to be found. Dismembered fingers told him you were somewhat pissed off. The body turning up tells him you no longer are just pissed off, but you are deadly serious. More importantly, a body tells him that you are not afraid of the police. Bracken needs to know this as well. It makes you more of a wildcard. He thinks he knows you. We are going to put some doubt into his mind."
The two men make their way back to the two chairs, angled toward the fireplace. Hunt decides to sit, while Castle continues to stand.
"Three – he knows my reputation," Hunt continues. A body showing up is a necessity if he is to suspect that I am involved."
Castle doesn't speak – not yet. Instead, he simply holds the gaze of this absolutely strange and frightening man who has just walked back into his life and ceremonially knocked over all of Rick's carefully placed pieces.
"And finally, number four. For this to work - for this to not completely fall apart ? Your friends at the 12th have to look at you differently," he tells him, and for the first time he sees the emotion in his son's eyes. He sees the hesitation. He knew that his son would balk at this point, even momentarily.
"They have to suspect you of wrong doing, Richard. They have to pull their trust, their confidence away from you. Bracken will have eyes and ears everywhere, believe me. And if reports get back to him that all is hunky dory with you and your detective friends at the precinct, well then he will know that he is being played."
Castle reluctantly nods in agreement, giving in to the indisputable logic being presented. This is, after all, his father's area of expertise.
"There is no way the police suspect you, but your friends at the precinct act like nothing is wrong. So a body needs to wash up, missing digits – in a location that supports the notion of you dropping the body into the Long Island Sound, and currents washing the body ashore. Don't worry, there will be no DNA evidence to link you at all – but the circumstantial evidence will be strong. And that will be enough to drive a truck-sized wedge between you and your friends.
"For how long?" Castle asks him.
"For as long as it takes," is Hunt's response. The two men sit in silence, digesting the plan laid out by Hunt. Finally, Hunt himself breaks the silence.
"And then finally, there will be Bracken's message to us."
"What message is that?" Castle asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Can this possibly get worse?
"Bracken can't get a message directly to me. He doesn't know how to contact me directly. And he will hesitate to contact you directly. I suspect the package we sent him will shake him momentarily. But he will need some way to let me know that he's received the message."
"How will he do that?"
"Detective Beckett," he says.
"What?"
"He will send the package we sent him to Beckett. With that package, he will include a message to you, telling you that he has received our message. He knows she will tell you. And by extension, I will then know."
"You believe he will send that grotesque package to Kate?" Castle asks, not believing this for a moment. He doesn't give the spy dad any time at all to interrupt.
"But if he sends the package to Beckett," Castle continues, "then she will know – she will think I really am a part of this. That I did kill him, and . . . and dismember him."
"No – she won't know for certain, Richard. But she has to wonder. It's critical that she not be certain. Her natural instincts are going to scream at her that there is no way you could do this. But she is also a detective, and the casual but mounting evidence is going to suggest a link to you. But all you need is plausible deniability, Richard, and you will have that. Now remember, she doesn't trust Bracken. She won't understand why we would have sent this to Bracken in the first place. She isn't aware that he is coming after her again. She won't trust him. But she will have questions about you. And we need her to have those questions, Richard. We need her second-guessing you. It will make her reactions, her decisions, and her behavior very sincere, very believable."
Castle doesn't like it. He understands the plan, but why should he like it? He's spent four long years, formulating friendships, building trust, building alliances. He knows that rebuilding those alliances and trusts will take even longer to restore – if that is even possible. In the back of his mind, he has still seen himself somehow, at some point, back at the precinct, working with his friends.
Working with her.
Even with her betrayal, her lie, even with him being as angry as he has ever been with her - he has seen them working together again – somehow working through things. Probably not as closely entwined ever again, but still working together.
This will change all of that completely.
Two days later at the 12th Precinct, 3:45 p.m., March 15, 2012
Kate Beckett sits at her desk, completely lost in the paperwork she mindlessly signs and documents from the case they have just closed. It was another boring case, another boring and routine collar. No rhyme or reason, just a stupid, senseless homicide. She stops, putting her pen down to glance across the desks at her two detective partners, who are tossing a soft-ball-sized red ball between them. She smiles, appreciating and reveling in the routine of it all.
It's been almost three weeks since the 'Magic Games' as the press has dubbed them, ended – with the arrest of Scott Dunn and the total, utter destruction of Richard Castle's loft home. As it turned out, that isn't the only thing that Dunn has managed to destroy.
Castle's reputation is being destroyed, as enough circumstantial evidence points to him to make even her wonder. Even the boys have their doubts, now. She sees it in their eyes.
Castle's once impenetrable trust of her is destroyed, completely shattered with the revelation of her dramatic lie. Even the boys shake their head at that one. She sees that in their eyes also.
So she does what she does best: she loses herself in the job, become even more focused, if that is possible, on the 'mission de jour', searching for absolution in the resolution of these cases that do nothing to wash away her guilt, her sadness, over what she has lost. Over what she threw away so carelessly. With each passing month, her lie became easier to live with. And with each passing month, the wood piled onto the bonfire of truth that eventually was lit – and for all she knows, still burns, rampaging everything in its path.
She opens her mouth to speak when her desk phone rings. She sighs, knowing that she ignores it at her own risk. Picking up the phone, frowning already, she greets her caller.
"Beckett."
"Hello Detective Beckett," Chief John Brady says in greeting. She recognizes his voice, which is clipped, as if he is trying very hard – too hard – to maintain a level of authority. If she weren't so tired, she would almost laugh at the young chief from the Hamptons.
"This is Chief Brady," he continues.
"I recognize your voice, Chief," she tells him. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid, detective, and I am afraid I can't do much for you either," he tells her, causing her head to snap up and bringing her senses to full alert. Somehow, she has physically changed her posture, visibly, because Ryan and Esposito have stopped their little ball toss game and are now all ears, leaning in as if that will help them hear this conversation better.
"What's this about, Chief?" she asks, now highly concerned, lip-synching his name to her two partners. Both men rise out of their chairs and walk toward her desk. In a moment of highly unusual transparency, she hits the speaker button and places the handset in the cradle, giving the two men an open ear to the conversation.
Both men recognize the unusual and unique transparency that she offers. Esposito raises an eyebrow to Beckett, who simply but forcefully waves them to sit down with her at her desk. Javier sits atop the desk corner, while Kevin Ryan stands next to him.
Neither men attempt to sit in the empty chair right next to her desk.
His chair.
"Detective, you asked me to call you if there was any new movement or development on the Scott Dunn case on our end . . ."
All three detectives move ever closer, forward, their heads down, so as not to miss a single word. Each of them has the dreaded feeling that everything is about to change. Beckett had asked him to call if something new came up. He's clearly not wasting their time calling to tell her nothing has come up. That is clear to each of them.
"Yes, go on," she encourages him.
"Well, something has come up. More specifically, a body has come up."
She hangs her head up, while both men beside her whisper encouragements to her.
"What do you mean?" she asks, already knowing the answer.
"A body washed ashore about an hour ago across the Sound from us in Woodmont. Well, it was found about an hour ago, that much we know. It's Dunn, detective. It's Scott Dunn."
"You've verified his identity?" she asks, knowing that they have, but she needs to hear all of it.
"As best we can, detective," he tells her. "The body has been mutilated."
That piece of information picks Javier Esposito off her desk, stumbling backward a step or two, staring at Kevin Ryan, who stands open-mouthed. Neither men can fathom this information, and are having difficulty processing it. If the body was found in Woodmont . . . that's near West Haven. That means the body washed up from the Sound.
Castle's home is on the other side of the Sound.
There are no coincidences in detective work. That is one of the first rules they all learn. So none of the three listen to the location of the body and discount it as coincidence. Each of their thoughts sprint toward their good friend, the writer.
"Projections from the sea current lead us to believe that someone dropped the body off from a distance in the Sound," the Chief continues. "I don't have to tell you that this doesn't look very well for your friend out here."
"How bad?" she asks, glancing at her two friends.
"I'm enroute to pick him up as we speak, Detective. I should be there in a couple of minutes. This is just a courtesy call."
All three recognize that, yeah, this is a courtesy call, but it is one that was delayed until the Chief was close to Castle's house. Just in case his 'friends at the 12th' wanted to give him a heads-up. Each of them spends the next few seconds wondering what they would have done with this information had they received it half an hour ago.
Finally, Kate breaks the silence.
"Where will you be taking him?" she asks.
"We will hold him here, possibly overnight. We are waiting for the Feds to arrive."
No one has to tell her – or her partners – what that particular circus is going to be like. Scott Dunn disappearing from a Federal vehicle on his way to arraignment has been a public relations disaster for the Feds. It is a black eye that continues to blister every day, as the press wonders where the serial killer is, whether he is alive, whether the Feds were involved in his escape, and what role did a certain mystery writer play in all of this?
So yeah, finding Scott Dunn – dead or alive – is an answered prayer to the local Feds. And since he is dead, well someone is going to have to answer for this, in the public eye. There is face to be saved, after all. And who better to answer for it than the one man that the press has already half-crucified in headlines and columnist articles, in the late night news broadcasts, and in the radio call-in shows.
"Do you think Castle did this?" Esposito asks his two friends, suddenly both stunned at their hesitation to comment, and equally ashamed at the thoughts currently racing through his mind.
Simultaneously at 3:45 p.m. at Richard Castle's Hampton Home, March 15, 2012
The wailing sirens approaching the beach home are the signal that both men have been waiting for over the past couple of days.
"I will be back," Jackson Hunt tells the three people standing with him at the back door, leading out to the dunes just a short jog away. "I promise you. But as I said, Richard must walk out this next phase on his own."
Martha Rodgers steps forward, giving him a quick hug, then takes the hand of her grand-daughter into her own to bring her inside. Alexis, for her part, quickly releases her grandmother's hand, and steps into the chest of her long-lost grandfather.
"Thank you," she whispers. The two words along with the tears on the young woman's cheeks are enough for the older man, and his son who stands next to him. They will be enough for Jackson Hunt as he bides his time to return in the distant weeks ahead. They will be enough for Richard Castle as he bides his time – undoubtedly in a federal jail cell – for who knows how long.
The news reports had interrupted all of the mid-day network shows about half an hour ago, and as soon as both women had heard the news of the missing body that had washed ashore, they knew the truth. Neither father nor son needed to confirm their involvement, and so neither did.
But the women know. And it has given them a portion of the silent, strengthening peace that both women have sought for weeks now.
Martha and Alexis walk in doors, while Castle hurries his father to the steps leading down to the sand.
"Go," he tells him.
"You're sure you are ready for-"
"Go," Castle tells him again. "I have this."
Jackson Hunt jogs a few steps down, before turning back.
"Thank you." Both men say the words simultaneously, and then share a small, wistful smile. Then Jackson Hunt is gone, out of sight, while Richard Castle walks calmly back into his home. He gazes into the living room, taking in the bright décor. He glances back into the kitchen, then towards the den, memorizing features and little things. He turns back to the open back door, and sniffs loudly, breathing in the ocean air.
He doesn't know when he will have these all-too-often taken-for-granted liberties again. He is relishing these final seconds when the doorbell rings, and glances at the faces of his mother and daughter, who are trying to be strong.
"Thank you," his daughter mouths again, tears in her eyes, but a fire and fierceness there again that he hasn't seen in weeks.
"So worth it," he thinks to himself, as he walks to the door and opens it to Chief John Brady and two deputies.
"Richard Castle, you are under arrest for the murder of Scott Dunn."