The Long Game: Chapter 7
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
The Hamptons Police Department, 8:00 p.m., March 15, 2012
"You have a visitor, Mr. Castle," Chief Brady tells him.
Richard Castle lies on the solitary twin-sized bed, with a thin, cheap blanket at the edge. He's been here now for the last four or so hours. The short ride from his beach home to the police station had been quiet and uneventful. That is – until the police cruiser had pulled up to station, where they were met by roughly twenty to thirty members of the press. Evidently Chief Brady had ensured that a welcoming committee would greet their newest celebrity guest.
The irony of all of the microphones stuffed in front of his face, the clicking of cameras – this has not been lost on the writer who is absolutely to such treatment from the press – just clearly not under these circumstances. He uses his experience in the public and paparazzi eye to get him from the cruiser to inside of the small station building with as little fanfare as possible, all things considered.
"Keep up appearances, son," Jackson Hunt had warned him just hours before, in anticipation of what was coming. "Don't let them see you hanging your head, don't let them see you sneaking in or sulking. Hold your head up. Remember, you are putting on a performance – and the audience you are playing for will not be there in person. He will be watching from afar, on his television later in the evening."
His head lies on the single pillow provided with the bed – it is a cot really, not much of a bed. He keeps his eyes closed – he hasn't been asleep, but he's kept his eyes closed for much of the time in the cell, recalling his father's words to him from earlier in the day.
"When you get to your cell, Richard, try to relax. The best thing will be to keep your eyes closed. Adjusting is easier that way. With your eyes closed, you aren't confined inside the three walls and set of bars. With your eyes closed, you aren't trapped in a strange place, away from your daughter and your mother. With your eyes closed, you can be anywhere. You can be on a sun-drenched beach. You can be on snow-capped mountains. You can be sitting on your large chair on the deck of this beautiful home, staring at the Atlantic."
He has taken those words to heart, and they have proven to be correct. It's no surprise, though, as he realizes that his father has likely been no stranger to captivity during his decades under cover. Clearly those were words of first-hand experience he had shared with him.
"Mr. Castle," the Chief tells him again, this time rapping on the bars to get his prisoner's attention. "You have a visitor."
He smells her before he opens his eyes to see her. Her perfume is faint, but the few hours he has spent with eyes closed has focused him on his other senses, as he escaped his surroundings. What he smells, what he hears – he's had to try to drown their words out as well, as he waited.
Yeah, he's been waiting for this. Waiting for her. He knew word of his arrest would get back to New York soon enough. The Chief would have made certain of that, of that much he is certain – given the small-scale media circus that was waiting for his arrival at the station. For his part, Chief Brady has been a mixture of detached professionalism and secret empathy. He finds it difficult to fathom that the writer he knows personally would be capable of murder, and certainly not the mutilations on the body that was found. He views Castle as highly intelligent, with great courage – but no real stomach for the messy stuff.
And this one was messy.
Castle doesn't move. Not yet. He doesn't open his eyes yet either. He will let her speak when she is ready. It's not like he is going anywhere anytime soon, and he almost chuckles to himself at the thought. Almost. Besides, their words between one another lately have been few – and borderline civil – since the end of Scott Dunn's siege.
"Castle?"
Her greeting opens his eyes, as he stares first at the ceiling above, readjusting his vision. Within a few seconds, his gaze drops to the woman standing at the bars of his cell. He consciously avoids her eyes. She wears her customary dark business suit with a blue top, that she works in, and he assumes she came straight from the city once she found out about his arrest.
His assumption is spot on. The detective had dropped everything after hanging up with Chief Brady, almost four hours ago. She has made decent time, given traffic, to get here to the station in the Hamptons. Surprisingly, there are still one or two media outlets still hanging out outside the station – apparently waiting for the Feds to swoop in and confiscate their prisoner. During the ride here, she had played and replayed the conversation she would have with her ex-partner. But now, standing in front of his cell, seeing him lying in captivity – her thoughts and words fail her, momentarily.
"Castle," she repeats. "Rick."
He lifts his torso off the bed, slowly swinging his legs around to meet the floor, putting his head in his hands. Suddenly his body is very tired, stiff from lying without moving for so long. He glances back at her, and their eyes finally meet for the first time in just over two weeks. It's been awhile since they have spent this much consecutive time apart. He steels himself for the part he knows he must play.
"Beckett," he says, finally standing. He takes a couple of steps toward the bars, toward her, running his hands through his hair, before stopping a good three feet behind the bars.
"What do you want?"
"I'm so sorry, Castle," she says suddenly, all prior thoughts now evaporated. Less than three weeks ago, she and the writer were in the midst of their unique dance, with each song bringing them ever closer to a union that she knew – she knew – was in their future. Now, he sits in a cell, separated from his daughter who was terrorized by a madman, and firm in the knowledge that she has lied to him, continuously, about the most important of all topics.
Love. His love for her, specifically.
"I'm so sorry," she repeats. The anguish she feels, the burden she fights for him right now – she sees none of that in his eyes, and it is disconcerting. His eyes are hard, and piercing. It is a look on Richard Castle with which she is completely unfamiliar.
He's lost his home, his daughter's innocence, his faith in the woman he loved, and now he's lost his freedom. He has paid a staggering price for one Scott Dunn, whose singular purpose was to play mind games with Kate Beckett. Deep down she knows this isn't her fault, but she can't help but feel responsible. She knows the only reason he is behind bars right now is because of his relationship with her.
And now, she has to wonder if the past two weeks have finally pushed Richard Castle over the edge, into murder? The evidence is piling up, and looking far more solid than circumstantial. Still, she cannot bring herself to believe him capable of such an atrocity.
"We're all sorry, Beckett," he tells her. It's an odd statement – one with which she immediately struggles. It doesn't sound like an acceptance of an apology, and worse – it doesn't sound like a shout of innocence either. In her mind, the same scene played itself out during her ride out here. She would see him, and she would see a slightly frazzled man, using humor to play off the natural fear and concern he would definitely have. She has seen enough of Castle over the past four years to know that while courageous and brave, the man is a realist of sorts also. Jail – serious jail – is not something he will do well with.
But that is not the man staring fiercely at her right now.
"I . . . I don't understand –" she says, struggling to find the words.
"Never mind," he says, taking another step away from the bars. He places his hands in his pockets, and returns his gaze to his visitor.
"Why are you here, detective?" he asks. The impersonal title, delivered with an even less personal tone bites deeply. She shakes the hurt away, knowing she has inflicted the far more damaging wounds. She knows he feels betrayed. She knows he feels used. She knows he has moved beyond angry to something else. Something more . . . sinister?
"I needed to see you. I needed to see that you are all right, Castle."
"Well, here I am - you see me. I am all right, as you can tell. So you can leave now."
She is taken aback by the fierceness of his dismissal. She's not giving up so easily, but she recognizes that this is going to be a higher, steeper climb than she anticipated. And she has to know the truth, she needs to hear it from him.
"Castle, just tell me it isn't true," she finally says. He's been waiting for this, too. He knows she realizes that he doesn't have murder in him. But he also knows the mounting evidence is pretty compelling. And he also knows that until two weeks ago, he would have never thought he had murder in him either. Much can change in two weeks.
Once again, his mind rewinds to the earlier conversation with Jackson Hunt.
"Remember, Rick – for now, they have to believe you are involved. Whether they believe you masterminded this, or just participated – everyone has to think you are involved," Hunt had told him. "This keeps the illusion for Bracken that you are now someone to be reckoned with. The minute Bracken sees you are not a suspect, that you didn't have anything to do with this, then he re-thinks everything. We need him convinced that I was behind this, but that you are a willing accomplice. And Richard – 'everyone' includes your detective friend."
"Tell me you had nothing to do with this, Rick. I will believe you," Kate tells him, and he believes her. He sees how badly she wants – she needs – for him to scream of his innocence.
"Tell me this is all one big mistake, and I will do everything – anything and everything – to get you out, to make this right, Rick."
He stares at her now, their eyes locked in a form of combat, and with each passing second, Kate Beckett begins to sadly re-consider and re-assess her beliefs about the writer. With each passing second of his silence, with his stone gaze the only words offered, her reality about one Richard Castle shatters into smaller, and smaller pieces.
Finally, he raises his head almost imperceptibly – she almost misses it. But he holds her gaze, and his eyes seem to soften for just a second – just a second, not more – before they harden again, and he turns from her.
"Go home, Beckett," he tells her, as her heart begins to crack and shudder, the pain in her chest increasing from a simple sting to hard pressure now. "You don't belong here."
"No, Castle, you don't get rid of me that easily," she fights back. There are no tears, no sadness. She is battling for him now, fighting for him if he won't fight for himself. "I know you, Castle, and –"
He takes three quick steps to the bars and covers the ground far more quickly than she would have imagined, his voice soft, yet harsh. He places his hands on the bars, bringing his face as close to the bars as he can.
"You don't know me, Beckett," he hisses with as much menace and venom as he can manufacture. "You don't know me at all."
He turns his back, and walks back to his small cot, and in one motion, falls back onto the bed, lifting his legs and lying down. He folds his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling – willing himself not to look at her again.
"And Richard – 'everyone' includes your detective friend."
"We're done here, Chief," he says, almost shouting. He closes his eyes, knowing that he has spoken loudly enough that the Chief will hear him. Sure enough, he hears the footsteps coming down the hall and they come to a stop outside his cell.
"Detective Beckett?" the Chief asks Kate, who stands – stunned – at the bars, still staring at the man now lying on the bed, ignoring her.
"Detective Beckett?" the chief asks again, ready to place his hand on her shoulder, when Kate – as if making a decision in her mind – turns and walks past the police chief without a word.
Castle keeps his eyes closed, and hears her low heels click further and further away. He waits for the surefire sounds of the Chief's footsteps, which follow that of the detective's a few seconds later. Giving them both another five-count, he finally opens his eyes, with a quick glance downward toward the bars of the cell – verifying they both are gone.
He releases a long breath, only now realizing that he was holding on to his breath. He takes a couple of long, deep breaths, then closes his eyes once more. He hears the sounds of the Atlantic, feels the sand in his toes, and sees the bright freckled face and long flowing hair of his daughter sitting alongside him, building castles in the sand – ironically.
For a brief instant, her younger image is replaced by the current iteration of his daughter – short chopped hair, butchered by a madman. He wills the image away, and sees the younger version yet again, and – eyes closed – he smiles and enjoys an afternoon at the beach.