The Long Game: Chapter 8
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
Four Hours Ago, at the FBI Office in Chicago, 3:00 p.m., March 15, 2012
Special Agent Jordan Shaw sits with Agent Jason Avery in the break room at the FBI office. Together with a couple of other agents, they are watching the live CNN feed from the Hamptons area on the east coast. She had taken two weeks off to stay with Tom and Jenna, and get her family settled – as best they could – after their ordeal last month. Yesterday was her first day back on the job, and today being a Saturday, it is the weekend crew that mans the building. Jordan really doesn't need to be here, but has decided to come in to finish up a few things in order to get a fresh start on Monday.
For the past couple of days, she has been on edge more than usual. News of Scott Dunn's escape – or what was originally reported to be an escape – was met with great interest by Jordan and her husband, Tom. Like Alexis Castle, their daughter Jenna Shaw has withdrawn in the past weeks since her safe return from Scott Dunn's clutches. While – like Castle – she and Tom are ever thankful that no physical damage has been done to their daughter, the psychological trauma young Jenna faces is far from over. The nightmares, the blank stares, the sudden crying outbursts - all of this is normal, according to the family counselor that all three of them are seeing right now.
So yeah, news of Dunn's escape was literally ripping the scab off the wound, so to speak. The news today, however, has brought both elation and concern to both, as she watches the breaking news on the television monitor in the break room.
"We are standing here along the shoreline here in Woodmont, just outside of Milford, Connecticut, where earlier today the mutilated body of Scott Dunn washed ashore in the now cordoned-off area just behind me. Viewers will recall Dunn as the serial killer responsible for numerous deaths over the past ten years, including, most recently, a family in Chicago, a cab driver in New York, all a part of a still not-fully-understood rampage that also included the destruction of a Broadway musical building and the kidnapping of two young women and two elderly people in New York City. Two of the kidnapping victims were related to well-known mystery writer Richard Castle."
The feed switches from the female reporter standing along the beach to an image of the Old Haunt bar in New York City, which now takes up the full screen, with writing underneath.
"Both federal and local New York police have considered Mr. Castle as person of interest for the past few days since Dunn's escape from federal authorities in front of Mr. Castle's well-known bar establishment."
The feed now switches back to the reporter on the Connecticut beach.
"That interest escalated dramatically this afternoon with the arrest of Mr. Castle on the grounds of suspected murder when Scott Dunn's body washed ashore. Mr. Castle is now being held in a local jail cell in the Hamptons. No bail has been set, as he is awaiting the arrival of federal authorities to transport him to an undisclosed federal location. For that, we will send viewers to the Hamptons, and Jerry Anderson."
The feed again switches now, to Jerry Anderson, a short, stout reporter who stands outside the Hampton's jail building. To viewers at home watching television, a video of Richard Castle being led through a chain of paparazzi into the building - filmed earlier – plays onscreen to the side of Jerry, as the reporter speaks.
"Thank you, Hannah. I'm standing outside the city jail building here in the Hamptons, where just minutes ago, Richard Castle was processed. A warrant for his arrest was served at his beach home here in the area, and as you can see from the accompanying video, his arrival here was somewhat of a celebrity event. There has been much speculation that Mr. Castle either arranged – or was at a minimum, involved in – the abduction of Scott Dunn from federal officers just days ago on March 10th. That mounting speculation exploded earlier today when Dunn's horribly mutilated body was found just across the Sound from where we stand this afternoon."
Much of what else is being said on the screen is lost to Jordan Shaw. She is transfixed on the video images of one Richard Castle, being led through a media circus from the parking area into the jail building. Jordan isn't one to say that she knows Richard Castle all that well, but she has spent enough time with him to at least formulate impressions. After all, as a profiler, it's what she does, whether intentional or nor.
What she sees from his image on the screen concerns her only in the fact that she can't read him. In two different previous settings, she has been able to get an easy read on the novelist. But the novelist is something of a blank page to her right now, and that surprises her. Unlike others who know the man, Jordan harbors no illusions as to whether or not Castle has it in him to kill. She has learned that any man or woman can find the will to take a life when it comes to their child. It's far easier than some would think.
And unlike others, she also is not taken aback with the possibility that Castle could have carried out whatever "horrible" mutilations occurred on the body – mutilations which have been mentioned repeatedly, but not described in any detail. Knowing the media and their tendency to err on the dramatic side, it could be anything from lacerations on the body to a missing head.
But unlike others, Jordan saw Castle when his daughter was returned. Jordan saw Castle when his mother was tied and gagged in a death trap. Others were there and saw him, yes, but Jordan saw him. And what she saw on those two different occasions tells her that, yeah, this man has it in him. Any of us can snap. We can only take so much.
So, no – she doesn't know whether or not Castle is guilty of whatever he's been accused of, but neither does she just knee-jerk react, thinking that this is impossible to consider him capable of revenge in this fashion.
"Do you think he did it, Jordan?" Agent Avery asks his companion at the break table.
"It's possible," she says aloud, still wondering how probable it might be. "I'd like to think not, but the man did damage his daughter."
Avery nods his head, and then asks the next, inevitable question.
"Are you all right, Jordan? I know he took Jenna, too? What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking I'm glad he's dead," she responds, without hesitation, not taking her eyes away from the television monitor.
"And I'm thinking I am heading east," she tells him, after a few more seconds of watching the news feed.
"You just got back, Jordan," he tells her.
"Don't worry, I will be back before Monday," she tells him, finally taking her eyes away from the broadcast, and punching a few keys on her cell phone.
JORDAN: Are you watching?
"What about Jenna and –"
"Jenna and Tom will be fine," she says, almost dismissively. "Honestly, I think both are going to feel like I do – glad that the bastard is dead – and more concerned about Castle, and what may or may not be happening there."
She begins typing again on her phone, this time with a different party, and the phone only rings once before her party picks up.
"I assume you are watching the feed?" the voice on the other end says to her, somewhat nonchalantly.
"Yes, I am," Jordan replies. "When are we picking him up and where are we taking him?"
"I'll confirm, but word is tonight, around 11 p.m., in order to avoid another media circus. We've had enough press – good or bad – on this one already."
"That's what I figured. Can you get me in on the detail?"
"Ooooh, I don't know Jordy. You are far too close to –"
"Damn right I am. And this is far too important for me to stand on the sidelines, Paul. This man helped save my daughter."
"Let me see what I can do. Give me ten."
"Okay, thanks Paul."
"Make it twenty," he corrects, and clicks off.
She hangs up, just as a text is coming in from Tom at their home. The surgeon is off duty this weekend, and she will have to make sure he isn't on-call. Her leaving for a day is one thing. Both parents being away from Jenna right now is a non-starter.
TOM: Yes. Are you heading there?
She smiles at the connection she and Tom share, still after all of these years. She had thought it cute when she first saw how Kate and Rick shared a similar connection, and marveled at how they fought against it instead of embracing it, reveling in it, and each other, as she and Tom had done. Shaking the thoughts out of her head, she responds.
JORDAN: Yes, Paul is trying to get me in on the detail. Just until tomorrow."
She begins typing again, but then stops herself.
"Screw it," she says, deleting the few characters , and deciding to simply call her husband. He picks up on the second ring.
"Don't worry, I've got it on this end," he tells her in way of greeting.
"I know you do, babe. Just don't want to take you for granted."
"I know, and you know that you don't," he tells her, and then pauses. For a few seconds neither says a word, before he continues.
"Do you think –"
"I don't know, Tom. I don't just know. Wouldn't you?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely," he tells her. His tone is harsh, and his words tell him that Jenna is not close by, as he wouldn't use that word around her.
"Well, if he did, I can't let him go down like this," she tells him. "I just can't."
"I know, I know. You have to go. You have your overnight bag there, I assume?" He doesn't really need to ask, as the special federal agent always has a bag at the ready at her office.
"You know that I do."
"Jordy ?" he asks.
"Yeah babe."
He pauses for another second, as if deciding whether to say the words or not - whether to throw the possibility out there into the universe. In the end, he realizes that it's already out there.
"Thank him for me, Jordy," he tells her, and he doesn't see her eyes mist, but he hears it in her voice.
"I will, Tom. I will."
Later that night at Kate Beckett's Apartment, 11:15 p.m., March 15, 2012
Kate Beckett is still very angry.
She'd been on the road for about three hours, and made it back to the city in near record time, given the traffic. Four plus hours to get out there, three hours to get back – over seven hours in her car, in that traffic, and all for what?
For all of five minutes, that's what!
She has replayed their conversation – if you could call it that – again and again and again during her return trip. For the first hour, she was in tears, on and off, and on the phone – with Jim Beckett, her dad. Because sometimes a girl just needs to talk to her dad.
For that first hour, she feared Richard Castle might really have done this. She has never seen Castle like this. Her first thoughts retreated back over a year ago, after the summer from hell, as she now describes it. That summer apart, after she had broken up – too late – with Tom Demming, while Castle had gone off to his hideaway home with that hideous bitch of an ex-wife of his. When she saw him as he returned to the city that fall, he was standing over a dead body – twice. And both times, he profusely swore his innocence to high heaven and anyone else that would listen.
So yeah, she's seen Richard Castle when he has been falsely accused. She's seen his reaction, and his boisterous proclamation of innocence.
None of that was on display back at the Hamptons this evening.
In thinking about that summer, where she'd lost out on her chance for a summer away with him, it then hits her that she has just gone all the way out to the Hamptons to see one Richard Castle and she still hasn't seen his home out there. Banging her hand on the kitchen counter in frustration, she continues replaying her trip back home. Fortunately, her dad had asked the right questions to cause her to reconsider, and start to accurately recollect her conversation with her now ex-partner.
The sadness she feels as she realizes that he, indeed, is now her ex-partner is almost suffocating. There is no evidence to lead her to believe that he was ever coming back to the 12th – to continue working with her, shadowing her, being inspired by her. Not after the so-called Magic Games, as the media has dubbed them. Idiots.
"I am probably the least inspiring person in his world right now," she muses to herself, and then shakes the thoughts of self-pity away, recalling her dad's words as she picks up the remote control and turns on the television in the living room of her apartment.
"What did he say to you, Katie?" he had asked her.
"Nothing, really, dad – he didn't say much of anything."
"Katie, you're not thinking clearly," he had told her, and she is grateful that he had chosen to push back on her. "You have the greatest memory that I know of – you remember spoken words like they are painted on page. Think back – what did he say to you?"
The irony of his words had stifled her for a few moments, as she recalled words that she had chosen to forget – at least publically with Castle – words that, now out in the open, have created an impossible chasm between the two of them.
Shaking these thoughts away also, she settles in on her revelation during the last couple of hours in the car.
"It was strange, dad. He asked me what I was doing there. And he called me 'detective'. Not Kate, not Beckett. That's strange for him."
"Perhaps he was giving you a message, Katie. You are a detective, and for anyone who might have been close by, listening, there would have been nothing out of the ordinary in hearing that. But for you – you say it is out of the ordinary in how he talks to you. Perhaps he was saying something to you – just for you."
She had considered her father's sage words, allowing her phenomenal memory to rewind and retrieve the exact words he had spoken to her.
She had just told him she was sorry.
"We're all sorry, Beckett," he had told her.
That sounded strange then, and even stranger now. She told him she didn't understand, and his response had almost been as if he were disappointed.
"Never mind," he had told her. Then he asked the question, as she looks back on it now.
"Why are you here, detective?"
It had been an insane and totally frustrating question to ask. She was obviously there because she cared, because she wanted to make sure he was all right. She wanted to make sure that he knew she believed in him, that she was there to support him. It was a crazy question to ask . . . unless he had an ulterior motive.
Unless he wasn't asking her anything, but was actually telling her something . . . both in the question, and the title he used.
"Maybe he wasn't asking me why I was there, but actually asking me to ask myself why I was there," she thinks again to herself. And the use of the word detective? Perhaps that was a subtle way of telling her to read between the lines . . . to detect, for crying out loud.
"So if I was there to detect, what was it that I was supposed to see," she asks herself again, as she pours herself a glass of red wine. "What was I supposed to notice? Why was I there," she considers again, now deep in thought. She wonders if she has missed something important. It would not be beyond Richard Castle to drop bread crumbs – but boy, he did not seem himself tonight.
"Of course he didn't, Kate," she tells herself. "He's stuck in jail. His baby girl is probably steal dealing with the trauma, and Martha? Cripes, who knows how Martha is taking all of this."
It is almost pure blind luck that her ears catch the word 'Hamptons' on the television, interrupting her thoughts and causing her to focus on the breaking news now playing on her screen. She slowly walks to the living room, places her glass of wine down on the sofa table, and falls backwards, into a seating position on her soft, exhausted over the day's events. Her eyes focus, as she watches Richard Castle walk out of the police station – and her eyes narrow as she sees who is with him, guiding him.
Back at the Police Station at the Hamptons, 11:25 p.m., March 15, 2012
"You folks are late," Chief John Brady says, off-handedly, as he rubs his eyes, watching his visitors walk through his doors.
"What, putting in a few extra hours today, Chief?" one of the federal agents asks him.
Chief Brady ignores the jab, instead rising to his feet to greet the three agents who have just walked into his station.
"Wanted to wait a few minutes to see if we could outlast your circus outside," the second agent states, pointing his thumb at the door behind them.
"They are still here?" the Chief asks, incredulously.
"Yes, they are," the third agent responds. "Mind if I have a word with you in private, Chief?" she asks.
"Not at all," he responds, leading her to his office. "You gents can wait here," he tells the two remaining agents, while pulling her into his office after receiving two head nods from the other agents.
"Thanks, Chief . . . Brady," she states, glancing down at his name tag on his light blue uniform shirt. "I'm Special Agent Jordan Shaw, from the FBI. I'm a federal profiler."
The Chief nods his head. "What can I do for you, Agent Shaw?"
"All cards on the table," she begins. "I know your prisoner, personally. My daughter was abducted along with his daughter, by your victim. I want a few words with him before we take him off your hands."
Chief Brady smiles, and today hasn't been one for smiles. "I appreciate the honest approach, Agent Shaw. Haven't been getting a lot of that lately."
"No, I'm sure you haven't, Chief," she replies, tiredly. "It's been a long day, and it's going to be an even longer night. Mind if I talk with him?"
"Go right ahead," he tells her. "Second cell down the hall to the right. He didn't have much to say to the NYPD detective earlier tonight. Maybe you will get more out of him."
"What do you mean?" she asks, now more curious than anything else. She wonders idly if the NYPD detective in question was Kate, but decides she will find out soon enough.
"Never mind, I will find out. Has he said anything incriminating?" she asks, as an after-thought, hoping the answer will be a 'no'.
"Hasn't said much of anything," he gives her. "Hasn't been screaming about his innocence, or bragging about his guilt, either. Nothing at all."
"Has he lawyered up?" she asks.
"Hasn't even asked for one, Agent Shaw." He notices her surprised expression, and continues. "Yeah, that surprised me, also."
"Curious," she thinks to herself. As much as she knows of Richard Castle, she would expect him to be shouting his innocence, if in fact he is innocent. And if he is guilty, Richard Castle knows enough about due process to make sure that his attorneys become visible, and quickly. That neither option is playing out is just that. Curious.
Those are her thoughts as she walks down the hallway toward the second cell on the right, where her friend is being held.
For his part, Richard Castle hears her walking towards his cell, and for a moment, fears it is a second visit from Kate Beckett. He is tired, he is sleepy, and he just isn't ready for round two with her just yet. He has lost track of time, since they took his watch, cell phone, all personal belongings. Fortunately, Chief Brady has been friendly, and warned him that the feds were coming in much later in the evening to get him, trying to avoid the media circus outside. He had told the writer to get a few hours of sleep.
"You're going to need it, Mr. Castle," he had told him. "Not sure what their plans are for you tonight, but trust me, you don't sound like you are the most popular person with them right now."
"I suspect I'm not," Castle had allowed himself to say, and then clammed back up after thanking the Chief.
So now, he is not sure what time it is, or who it is approaching him. But it is only one set of footsteps, and if it were the Feds coming for him, he'd likely hear three or four, including the Chief. For a moment, his heart races with a worst-case scenario.
"Oh God, please don't let it be someone breaking me out of here," he thinks to himself. That certainly isn't in any contingencies that he and Jackson Hunt have accounted for.
Seconds later, he hears a very familiar voice, one that causes him to bolt upright faster than he intends.
"Rick?"
"Jordan?" he responds, clearly surprised, and moves to his feet and walks toward the cell door bars. He places his hands on the vertical bars, and allows his head to fall tiredly to the cold iron that separates them, and closes his eyes.
"Okay, I didn't see this one coming," he thinks, as he opens his eyes, gazing into the eyes of his friend, through the bars a few inches below him.
"What are you doing here, Jordan?" he asks. His voice is non-committal, thankfully. Not showing happiness, not showing indifference. But his eyes betray him, and she notices it right away.
"Oh, I was just in the area, wanted to stop by and say hello," she smiles, and he returns her smile. It's his first smile in days, it seems. Suddenly in these next few seconds, everything comes crashing down on him, and the burden he carries is clearly visible to her. His legs briefly falter, and he grabs hold of the bars more tightly. He idly wonders how long he can really keep this up. Hell, it's only night number one, and he's already tired of the charade. But then he considers Alexis. He sees her face. In those seconds, his resolves returns, and he is strengthened by her image.
None of this internal battle, however, is lost on the profiler. She has caught the all-to-brief softness in the eyes, the brief falter as his legs almost give out, then watched him recover, and retreat. She nods her head, her smile waning, but still somewhat present, and she makes her decision right then and there, regarding his potential guilt or innocence.
"I don't know what the game is you're playing, Rick," she says softly, knowing that cameras are recording everything. "But I will allow it, and play along for now."
His eyes startle back to hers, and she knows for certain now. She places her hands along the bars, just under his. He moves his hands down, grabbing hers, once again let's his head rest on the bars.
"I . . . I . . ." he begins softly, but is interrupted.
"Not here," she says softly, but firmly, willing him to look at her, which he finally does.
"Do you understand me?" she asks, and is satisfied when he nods his head.
"Play the game with me, Jordan?" he asks, and her heart tugs, understanding that for some reason that she cannot possibly fathom, he is allowing himself to take the fall for someone else.
"Is everyone safe?" she asks him, thinking quickly and what possibilities could invoke this type of sacrifice.
"They will be," he says softly, and she nods in final understanding. "We have much to talk about," she says, before pulling away.
"Chief, we are ready to go now," she says aloud, toward the Chief's office.
Seconds later, the Chief is walking down the hallway, with her two fellow agents in tow. Both agents know the relationship, the recent history that their fellow agent has with the prisoner in the cell ahead of them. The discussion on the helicopter ride to the Hamptons was quick, but detailed. Jordan's reputation within the agency begins with her honesty and transparency. That has served her well with her peers and superiors.
She doesn't think he's guilty, and she has told them this on the flight here. She has also admitted to them that she doesn't rule it out, given the nature of the crime against his family. Now, as always, she chooses the honest approach, knowing that both agents – both family men – will understand. She tells them she may need some private time with him, conversation wise, and both agree to keep their headsets on for the return flight into the city, to give them that privacy. They trust Jordan enough to know that she will share anything important with them.
Regardless, the men are nevertheless imposing figures – the FBI is taking no chance of a repeat fiasco on this transport, and Jordan is thankful – yet again this evening – that Paul was able to get her into this detail. It was not – he has told her – an easy call for him to sell. It was one that has left him highly, highly obligated to someone at the agency, a position he doesn't appreciate.
Chief Brady tries a little humor as he unlocks Castle's cell door.
"I hope you enjoyed your stay at our resort, Mr. Castle," and he is greeting with a small smile from the writer, the first given to him since his incarceration.
"My compliments for the turn-down service," Castle tells him, then retreats quickly back under hooded eyes. The transformation is so abrupt, that everyone – even the FBI profiler – is taken aback somewhat.
They take a few more steps, and the Chief opens the door leading outside. Yeah, sure enough, the incoming helicopter had alerting the media, which somehow had been hiding somewhere. But now they are out in full force again, and the lights are set up, glaring brightly at the doorway where the Chief now stands.
"A chopper?" the Chief asks, questioningly.
"If someone is going to escape this time, it's going to be a long way down," the taller of the agents smirks.
The Chief nods, and stands out of the way, allowing his guest to leave his building.
"You ready for this," Jordan asks him as they approach the doorway, within sight of the media outside.
"Are you?" Castle says, his voice hard and cold. Again, she is stunned at the transformation, and in truth would begin to reconsider her assessment had she not stared into her his face, into his eyes.
"He may be playing them, but he won't lie to me," she tells herself. "But why, for the love of God . . ."
An agent leads them through the crowd to the chopper, while Jordan grabs his arm, leading him along, followed by the third agent. His hands flop limply in front of him, shackled by the handcuffs Jordan has placed on him.
"Mr. Castle, did you do it?"
"Mr. Castle, can you make a quick statement?"
"Mr. Castle!"
The shouts, the requests are fired rapidly and loudly at the four retreating figures, and Jordan is thankful that Agent Harrison Talbert clears a path for them – otherwise this could easily get dicey.
For his part, Richard Castle remains stoic, his head up, his eyes straight ahead, zoned in on the helicopter, never glancing in either direction. They reach the chopper within twenty to thirty seconds, and Castle feels himself roughly pushed down, forcing him to bend to get into the aircraft.
"Apologies," he hears the agent tell him. He simply nods in response. A second later, Agent Jordan Shaw is sitting beside him, closing the chopper doors. Her partners are both in the front seats ahead of them, and suddenly the aircraft lifts off, with an immediate bank and rises off. Within seconds, Castle finds himself staring out the window at the waters below as the chopper banks, heading toward the city. He is wrestled from his reverie, feeling hands on his. Suddenly he cuffs are off, and he looks down at his free hands, and rubs feeling back into them.
"Tom like those?" he asks, and for just a few seconds, Jordan Shaw sees the playful novelist she has seen in the past.
"He doesn't mind," she chuckles.
Neither says a word for a few seconds, as if they both realize the importance of these little reprieves for the writer. But it's going to be a quick flight – and she has lots of questions. She points to the two agents facing the windshield in front of them, and points to their headsets firmly around their ears.
"They've given us some privacy, Rick," she says, and he nods his head appreciatively.
"So talk to me – what's going on here?"