The Long Game: Chapter 9
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
On the FBI Helicopter leaving the Hamptons, 11:40 p.m., March 15, 2012
"Where do I start?" Richard Castle asks the FBI profiler.
"You can start with why you don't seem too fazed to be in FBI custody under suspicion of murder, for one," Special Agent Jordan Shaw tells him. "You're a smart man, so I know you understand how serious this is, Rick."
Her only answer is a nod of the head from the writer, her friend.
Over the past few weeks, a special kinship has developed – not only between Richard Castle and Jordan Shaw – but between the writer and her entire family. Between his daughter and her daughter. Together, they have undertaken an undesired, unplanned journey together. One of terror and fear, and now hope and healing.
Truth be told, one Detective Beckett should be a part of this as well. Her father was taken, her therapist tortured. All a part of an elaborate game by a madman now dead. A madman killed by Castle's father.
While Castle stood by and watched.
But the detective's lie – more specifically – the length of the detective's lie is a thorn, a wound that just isn't healing with the writer. He is no stranger to lies. Sometimes you tell a lie to protect someone. Sometimes you tell a lie out of fear. Sometimes you tell a lie to gain an advantage. He knows he harbors a lie of sorts – withholding information – and he knows why he has withheld information from the detective. His move protects her. His move prevents her from acting irrationally. His move prevents her from putting more of them in danger, including herself.
Her lie? He doesn't know the reason, but this he does know. No one has been protected by her lie, except maybe herself. And that wound festers. Every day for the past few weeks he has tried to surgically remove the offending thorn, and each time the thorn is out, another seems to grow, and dig deeper into the wound, taking root. There is an anger with each surgical extraction, an anger that he cannot shake. This worries him, because he is generally a very forgiving man. Probably to a fault, to his dismay.
So that fact that he can't seem to embrace forgiveness in her case only serves to anger him more – he holds her responsible for the lie, for the pain the lie has caused. That is logical and understandable. He also holds her responsible for his anger with himself for not being able to forgive and move on. That is illogical and unfair. And he knows this.
"It all comes out in the wash," his mother had told him when he was a young boy caught in a lie, teaching him a lesson in why a lie eventually comes out of the darkness, to light. Well, he is stuck in the wash, on spin cycle. He can't get out. It frustrates him to no end.
Then his long-estranged, never-before-met father shows up and rocks his world.
"I know you, Rick," Jordan tells him, getting his attention again. "Not the kind of knowing that comes from years and years of friendship, I grant you that. But I've been in the fire with you, Rick. The kind of fire you don't think you're going to walk away from."
He glances at her, and although he doesn't move, his eyes agree with her.
"I know who you are," she tells him, "and you are no murderer. Yet here you sit, perfectly content to take the blame for something you are not responsible for."
He turns to face her now, as they sit side-by-side.
"Thank you for taking the cuffs off," he tells her, and she nods her head. He's ready to talk. Just shut up and let what comes out come out.
"What if I am responsible, Jordan?" he asks her, and she is unable to keep the look of surprise off her face.
"That's damn near a confession, Rick," she tells him, quickly, and glances toward the front seat, making sure her two companion agents haven't taken their headsets off. If they hear something like this, it is over before it begins.
"Just shut up," she says emphatically. "Don't say another word. Wait until we get you settled, and you can bring in the high-priced attorney that I know you have available and on-call."
She is trying to protect him now. She wanted to get him talking to simply confirm what she already knows in her heart: that he is innocent, and being railroaded by someone. The last thing she expected was an expression of guilt.
"Or is it?" she wonders to herself. After all, 'responsible' can mean many things. And she is talking to an author, a man whose command of the English language far exceeds her journeyman levels. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he is still talking.
"I am keeping my family safe, Jordan. That's all."
She shakes her head, in complete disagreement. She has to steer this in a different direction.
"But not like this, Rick. Not by –"
"But what if I am responsible?" he repeats again, asks again. She doesn't understand, and so she pushes back yet again.
"You're not listening to me. You can't –"
"No," he interrupts, softly. "You're not listening. Jordan. What if I am responsible?"
The inflection in his voice, the emphasis on those two words finally hits her – she begins to see the bread crumbs he is dropping for her, and she bends to pick them up.
He is doing this to keep his family safe. Safe from who?
"Rick, if something is going on, we could put your family into protective custody. You know this. We could –"
"Jordan," he interrupts again. "The type of people I am at war with can take your daughter – and you are an FBI special agent – but they can take her anytime they please, so forgive me if I am not buying what you're selling here."
He sees the concern in her face, and truly hates to use this card on her so close to her actually getting her daughter back. But he has to make her understand. Jackson Hunt has warned him that their mutual enemy had to believe that he was involved. Further, Hunt has told him that the NYPD – especially one Kate Beckett and her team of detectives – the NYPD has to believe him to be involved.
Special Agent Jordan Shaw may different, but then again she may not. Who's to say that Bracken doesn't have his tentacles inside the Agency. Simple logic tells him that he probably does have allies and spies within pretty much any government agency. So for now, he's got to tread lightly here. Even with a woman that he only now realizes – in this moment – that he trusts more than anyone outside his immediate family. Because of their mutual shared experience. Because of their budding friendship.
And because she hasn't lied to him. At least not that he knows about.
"Don't you realize how dangerous this game is you're playing?" she asks him.
"There won't be any DNA evidence implicating me," he tells her, drawing yet another incredulous look from the Fed.
"Rick, please . . ."
"There is only circumstantial evidence. And it's not really evidence. It's more like information," he says, and finally turns his head away from her. "They can't hold me long, and by the time I am out, my message will have been delivered."
"What message?" she asks. "Message to who, Rick?"
"I'd rather keep you out of this," he responds.
"Why?" she asks, now exasperated and frustrated, unable to keep from banging him on his shoulder.
"Because of Jenna," he tells her, and that shuts her up. He sees the look in her eyes, the fear and concern she tries to hide, but it is far too soon, her wound far too fresh for her to hide the concern for her only child.
"Look Jordan – I know you have far more experience than I do with criminals and nutjobs. But I do have a few experiences of my own. Recent ones," he tells her, and lets that digest with her for a few seconds.
"My experiences have taught me that there are people in this world that even you, even your FBI cannot protect me or my family against. So no disrespect to you, Jordan, but I've chosen a different path this time. It was pure dumb luck we got our daughters back, got my mother back . . . got Jim back."
He wills his thoughts to stay in the present, ignoring the pull that wants him, that urges him. He leans his head against the back seat of the chopper, and closes his eyes, listening to the repetitive hum of the blades. Somehow, it is a calming influence, it reasons with him.
"Look," he begins again, more gently this time. "Dunn is dead. That's all you need to know. Jenna is safe. Alexis is safe. But there are people out there that make Dunn look like a rank amateur. Those people have me – they have my family, they have Kate, and Javi and Kevin Ryan all in their crosshairs, and none of them know this. I don't expect you to understand, but what I am doing protects them."
"You don't need to do this alone, whatever 'this' is," she tells him. "You can tell them, you can –"
He laughs – and not the chuckling kind. He literally burst out in laughter, and she is taken aback with his response. For him, it is a release of sorts, leaking out all of the stress and tension he has held in for the past couple of days.
"You don't know Kate Beckett, Jordan," he tells her, still laughing. "If I even insinuate to that woman that someone is after her – Pow! - she is gone – off on some Don Quixote quest that puts everyone in her life in danger – and she will be totally oblivious to it. There would be so much collateral damage lying around her and all she would care about his her mission, I promise you that, Jordan."
The words are harsh, and the fact that they are spoken with laughter is all the more disarming, all the more frightening.
"How does what you are doing protect them?" she asks. It's the only question she can think of at the moment.
"Because it tells my enemy that I am a man to be reckoned with."
They remain quiet for the next few moments, as both are now lost in their thoughts. Jordan is still trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together – and she is doing so without the benefit of a picture on the box. All she has are pieces – she doesn't even know what the finished product is supposed to look like. An impossible task.
"You know," she begins, "I don't believe you did this, Castle." She's changing tactics now. She is using his last name. For the next few minutes, they are not friends. She's going to treat him like the suspect he is – perhaps she will get somewhere this time.
"I don't think you did this," she repeats. "I really don't. But I have to say, it's getting harder and harder to see you as an innocent man, the more you talk."
"Good," he says, again surprising her. "Because if you wonder, then everyone will wonder. The media will wonder. Beckett will wonder. I need that."
"And you are willing to spend the rest of your life in jail over this," she states, half asking the question, half throwing the concept out there to see his response.
"If it guarantees my family is safe – yes I am."
There is no hesitation in his answer. So she finally gives in, and asks the question she had promised herself on the ride out to the Hamptons that she wouldn't ask, wouldn't even entertain.
"Did you do it?"
Richard Castle simply stares at her, and she cannot help but flinch as she sees the veil return, his eyes becoming hooded and guarded. She is saved by the ping on her mobile phone, indicating an incoming text.
"Probably from Paul, making sure nothing has gone screwy," she thinks to herself. She is wrong, and her eyebrows rise as she sees the incoming text. She elbows Castle in the arm, to get his attention, and watches him glance down at her phone's screen. He shows no emotion. Dammit.
KATE: What are you doing? Saw you on TV
Jordan again looks to Castle for his thoughts – advice, concerns – anything. His face remains a blank slate, and so she begins typing.
JORDAN: Escorting Castle to federal holding
The response is immediate.
KATE: Where?
Jordan frowns, knowing that the detective should know better.
JORDAN: Classified. You know that
She waits a few seconds for the response she knows is coming. She doesn't have to wait long for the question she knows Kate is dying to ask. Well, one of two questions.
KATE: Why are you there?
JORDAN: Why aren't you?
It's probably not a fair question to ask, but then again, Richard Castle did tell her that Kate had been there in the Hamptons at the jail to visit him earlier in the day. She had idly wondered why the detective had left, why she hadn't stayed. Now her wonder has turned into downright curiosity.
KATE: He told me to leave
Jordan half smirks and half frowns, staring at the words on her screen. She glances at Castle, and sees that he is reading their exchange. Yet he remains silent, guarded. He is in full retreat.
JORDAN: And you listened to him?
She feels Richard Castle smile next to her, she can feel the tension ease off of him just slightly as he reads her response to the detective. It causes her to smile as well. But only for a brief instant, and then her frown returns.
"Seriously, she listened to him?" she thinks to herself.
KATE: I had to leave
Now Jordan's frown increases, as she quickly shakes her head a few times, trying to make sense of this.
JORDAN: Why? You have a hot date or something?
It's a jab, she admits. But she also is curious what could have been more important than staying with her friend, her partner – even if, for now, he is an ex-partner.
KATE: What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Jordan Shaw is tired. It's been a long day, and a longer night. She will call Kate Beckett a little later. Maybe later tonight, maybe in the morning. But right now, she has a prisoner in her custody and she still has a few more questions for him.
JORDAN: Nothing, Kate. Figure it out
She puts her phone away, as if Kate Beckett can see that the conversation is over. She glances at Castle, who had been staring at the messages on her phone before glancing away. Still nothing. She stares at him for a few more seconds, before looking away herself.
"What are you doing, Richard Castle?" she wonders to herself, starting to review their conversation, trying to decide where to pick it up again, when her phone pings again. She sighs, pulling it back out of her pocket.
KATE: Jordan, I am worried
Jordan's response is typed out and sent before she can even think.
JORDAN: You should be. So am I
She knows that Castle has said that it is important that Kate believe he is involved. Okay, she will play along. She owes him this much, even if she doesn't agree. At least for now. She knows that, in his own coded, guarded way, he has pulled the curtain back for her, just a bit. But no way is she going to let this man go down. Her phone pings.
KATE: You think he did it?
Jordan stares at the message for a few seconds, before glancing at Castle. He is staring out the window, at the buildings below. The chopper has begun to bank a bit, and Jordan glances out her window. They are close now. They'll be on the ground soon.
"Rick," she calls him, touching his arm to get his attention. He turns to her and she holds her phone out to him, so he can read the last messages.
"Your call, Rick," she tells him, giving him her phone. He scrolls back through a couple of their messages, getting the gist of their conversation. At one point he smiles, and she knows what he has just read. But the smile is short-lived, and soon enough he hands her phone back to her.
For a split second, she sees the worry in his eyes, but it is so brief that had she not been staring at him as he read the messages, she'd have missed it. Quickly it is replaced by those hard, cold eyes, and a subtle nod of the head follows.
"You're sure?" she asks him, and when she gets no further response, she looks down at her phone and begins typing.
"Here goes nothing," she thinks to herself, praying that she is doing the right thing.
JORDAN: Yes
Senator William Bracken's Home in Columbia Heights, Washington, D.C., 12:45 a.m., March 16, 2012
Senator William Bracken glances at the wall clock in his study, wiping the moisture of tired eyes from his face. It's almost one o'clock in the morning, and he has an early start to deal with in the morning. But his guest is not someone you just rush out of your house. Even though she has done a number of jobs for him, there are protocols to be followed here. He trusts this person as much as he is going to trust anyone, outside of his wife.
Elena Markov sits in the large, plush chair opposite the Senator and his wife, Elizabeth. Whereas her husband seems to trust the woman who has invaded her home, Liz Bracken is naturally distrustful. It is part of why she and Bracken are such a good fit for each other.
Bracken had tweeted some obscure tweet about an hour ago, ending the tweet with their special code, "#RushinHome". He had figured she would be in contact with him within the day – that was typical unless she was out of town or out of country. She had called less than ten minutes later – by agreement with Jackson Hunt – letting the Senator know she was, indeed, in town.
Feeling no time is better than the present, Bracken had asked her to swing by, which she has obliged. Now, as he stares at this woman, he is again taken in by her gothic beauty. The woman just oozes beauty and danger simultaneously, and he thanks his stars this morning – as he does every single time he calls her into action – that he has never been on the opposite end of one of her missions.
He does not know that the assassin in his home is – and always has been – permanently aligned with the Stone assassin he currently – and rightly – fears. Although she has done numerous jobs for the Senator, and actually has grown to admire than man somewhat, her allegiance is set in stone, so to speak. She admires the Senator. Yes, she knows the kind of man he is – but she also knows the kind of woman she is, herself. Yes, she admires him. And if Hunt tells her, she will kill him in an instant. She idly wonders why he hasn't just asked her to do just that. It wouldn't be the first time either of them had taken out a politician – foreign or domestic.
When the tweet came in earlier, and she had called and set this clandestine meeting in the wee hours of the morning, she had also called Jackson Hunt. Her Stone ally.
"You were right," she says in greeting. "Going to see them now."
"Them?" he asks. "Both of them?"
"I'm just going to have a little fun. He asked if Liz could be there."
"Interesting," Hunt had said.
"It will be," Elena had responded. "I will call you soon," she had said in closing, and hung up the call from her burner phone.
So here Elena sits, in the study of a man she has done favors for in the past, but now at the bidding of a man to whom she owes far more than the Senator could ever know.
"Are we understood, Elena?" Senator Bracken asks her, smiling and friendly – as always. He's learned that you are always friendly with these people. You never let them think you see them as below you. That can be a fatal mistake.
"Yes," she says simply. "She will get this package in the morning."
"This morning?" he questions, knowing that the woman will have to travel for a few hours to get to New York. "You can wait a day, Elena – wait until you've rested-"
"I am fine. You know this Senator," she tells him. "She will receive this in the morning."
"Okay," he responds, standing up. She stands with him, but Elizabeth remains sitting. Interesting. A bit of a breach of protocol, but Elena gets it. The woman is holding her ground – she accepts the assassin in her home, but does not like it. As it is with her husband, Elena grudgingly admires the woman, probably even more so than her husband.
Smiling, and making her mind up, she walks over to the sitting woman. For a moment, Elizabeth Bracken realizes her tiny mistake, and begins to stand quickly, but Elena's hands are on her shoulder, gently pushing her back into her seat. Time for a little fun.
"You worry needlessly, Mrs. Bracken," Elena tells her, whispering in her ear. "You have nothing to fear from me. The power your husband craves cannot be found between a woman's legs," she purrs into her ear.
"He is faithful – one of the few," she finishes, softly biting Elizabeth's ear, and then placing a soft kiss on her cheek.
Senator Bracken watches the one-way exchange, at first with a bit of concern over his wife's breach of protocol. But seeing Elena's softness with his wife, he releases his breath. He's seen the woman in kill mode, twice. He will never forget that look, and is thankful that it is not there tonight.
He has learned to allow Elena her small . . . idiosyncrasies.
He immediately pushes the thought out of his mind. The detective will get the package in the morning. She won't know who it is from. She still has no idea that he was behind her mother's death, behind Roy Montgomery's death, behind her shooting. She has no idea that he was getting ready to break his agreement – one that she evidently still does not know about. He still marvels that the writer had kept that information to himself. He knows the writer was informed – Smith got to him. But he also knows – from his contacts in the NYPD, that Kate Beckett has remained in the dark about him – and his agreement.
Yeah, he has miscalculated the writer – and the writer's father, if his suspicions are correct. So Beckett will get the package, with his personal typewritten note.
He watches Elena stand back up, away from his wife. He walks toward them, as Elizabeth now stands up as well.
"I will walk our guest out, love," he tells Liz, who simply nods her head, and walks out of the study toward their bedroom. She, too, understands Elena's strange ways.
The two – the Senator and the assassin – walk toward his front door, in silence. It is not until his hand is on the doorknob of the front door that he gives a final glance to the box in Elena's hands, and a glance into the eyes of the woman. He holds his hand out. She takes it, smiling.
"Thank you, Elena," he tells her. "I appreciate this – and I appreciate you. I hope you know this."
"I do, Senator," she replies, smiling back, and then departs from her script. There is a question she really is curious about.
"Allow me this curiosity, though," she says, searching his eyes. "Why am I giving her a package? Why am I not giving her a bullet? Or something even more interesting?"
Senator Bracken considers her question. It is a good question, as she doesn't know the back end game being played. At least as far as he knows, she doesn't.
"Let's just say that it is in my best interest – for now – that she remains alive and unharmed," he states, his smile still intact.
She nods, letting him think that his answer is sufficient.
"I will call you later this morning when it is done," she tells him.
"Thank you," he replies, and he watches her walk down his sideway to the street where she makes a quick left turn, walking away from the house. He shuts the door, closing his eyes, and for a brief instant, wonders how his beautiful Russian assassin would fare against the Stone.