The Long Game: Chapter 10
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
At Kate Beckett's Apartment Home, 6:33 a.m., Friday March 16, 2012
Kate Beckett didn't get much sleep last night. It's been a long time – years in fact – since she has had these kinds of restless, sleepless, nightmarish hours in bed such as last night. For years after her mother's murder, such sleep-deprived and nightmare-driven nights were somewhat common. Not an every-night occurrence, no, but still fairly common nonetheless. In the past few years, however, she has been able to move past those terrible nights.
Oh, the case still haunts her, as it continues to rear its ugly head in her life. Dick Coonan killed in the precinct, before he could tell her anything. Roy Montgomery's sacrifice. She, herself, getting shot. Yeah, this case still bites her in the ass, continuously and when she least expects it. But she's been able to sleep at nights. And she knows why.
Richard Castle.
The writer's self-inclusion into her world has been frustrating, exhilarating, maddening, informative . . . and . . . and . . .
"Fun," she thinks to herself, as she brushes her teeth, preparing for an early morning at the precinct. The writer has been the reason she has been able to sleep more normally over the past few years. He is the reason she has often gone to sleep with a smile on her face, even after the most gruesome of cases. He is the reason she wakes up – groggily but happily – knowing that on her days in the office, a hot cup of thoughtfulness awaits her.
So the awful irony that he is also the reason that she got literally no sleep last night is not lost on her. With one single, horrific word, Special Agent Jordan Shaw – a woman that Kate Beckett has grown to trust implicitly – has rocked her world asunder.
"Yes."
In retrospect, her question – "Do you think he did it?" – was rhetorical. You know how it is – you ask a question, your friend says "no, no, that's not it", and you move on. That's how it was supposed to go. That's what she was supposed to say. In what maniacal, Joker-esque world was Jordan supposed to say "Yeah, Kate, I think he did it"?
"Yes."
The answer had haunted her all through the night. It had awakened her, sweating, and driven her to sleep, crying. Then the pattern repeated. All – Night – Long.
She spits the toothpaste-laden water from her mouth, licks her lips, dropping her toothbrush on the sink counter. She sighs, staring at very red and very tired eyes that mock her, and begins running her hairbrush through her hair.
The doorbell ringing – at barely 6:30 / 6:40 in the morning startles her, and she finds herself scrambling into the bedroom for her gun that lies in her nightstand drawer. Perhaps it's the dreams still playing in her mind, or just the reality that no one – absolutely no one – visits her home at this hour – not even Castle at his most obnoxious. Regardless, she moves slowly toward her front door after capturing her sidearm. Reaching the door, she gazes through the peephole, looking at the oblong face of a woman she has never met.
"Who is it?" she asks, loudly, through the door.
"Detective Beckett," comes the reply – the woman stares straight at the small peephole from where she stands, roughly two feet away from the door. It's unnerving, for some reason. "I am tired. Open the door."
There is something about the command this woman carries, about the authority that causes Kate to take a step backward, even with a large wooden door protecting her.
"These damn dreams," she thinks to herself, as she decides, wisely or unwisely, to open the door, her firearm in hand.
She stares at a woman who looks both exotically beautiful and maddeningly dangerous at the same time. Whether it is years on the police force or just providence, but within seconds Kate realizes that she is standing face-to-face with an assassin, a stone-cold killer. Her first thought is that her unknown, unseen enemy who has killed her mother, killed her mentor, and almost killed her has finally come to finish the job.
She doesn't know how close to the truth, yet far from the truth she is. Elena Markov is an assassin, and she is working for Kate's enemy at the moment. Fortunately – although she will never know it – Kate's safety is guaranteed because of Elena's ultimate loyalty to Jackson Hunt, which supersedes all else.
Kate raises her weapon, taking two quick steps backward, holding it with two hands at eye level with the assassin. She notices a box in the woman's hands. Then she notices the smile on the woman's face. It is the smile of a snake ready to strike.
The strike comes without warning.
The gun to her face not deterring her in the least, Elena rapidly drops to a squat before Kate can even think of pulling the trigger. The Russian's leg sweeps out as she spins beautifully. It happens so quickly, but Kate sees it in slow motion. For all the good it does her. Before she can think, Kate finds herself flying upward in the air. She hangs mid-air for what seems like an eternity. In reality, it is barely a second or two before she lands roughly on the ground. Amazingly, her head doesn't bang itself on the floor. Instead, as Kate flies - first upward, then downward - toward the ground, Elena Markov has launched herself, parallel along the ground, where she slides her left arm outward on the ground. It is within the hook of Elena's elbow that Kate's head lands. With her free right hand, the assassin grabs the gun from Kate's hand, resting the mouth of the weapon under Kate's chin.
"God, this is it," the youngest female to make detective in the city of New York thinks to herself. She doesn't have even a second to worry, fret, however, as the next thing she feels are two soft lips along her cheek. She smells the musky scent of the woman's perfume. The kiss from the woman is unexpected, and frightening.
"That was fun, detective," Elena purrs in her ear, then runs her lips along Kate's cheek again, all the while leaving the weapon nestled firmly under Kate's jaw. "We really have to do it again sometime."
With that, Elena rapidly withdraws her arm. There's the thud, as Kate's head bangs against the floor roughly. The assassin arches her back and suddenly is in the air and on her feet. She reaches down to the ground, offering a hand to Kate Beckett. Kate stares at the hand for a couple of seconds, regaining her bearings, then sighs and lifts a hand.
Elena pulls her upward on to her feet, and immediately hands her gun back to her, and turns away from the detective. She walks back to the spot on the ground where she had dropped to a squat, and retrieves the box that she laid on the ground. The box she has come to deliver, in person, to the detective.
"Arrogant bitch," Kate thinks to herself, watching the woman turn her back on her. She rubs the back of her head and walks to the kitchen counter where she lays her gun.
"Not going to need that," she thinks, and doesn't voice the thought - even in her head – that she probably couldn't even get a shot off against this woman. When she turns around after laying the weapon down, she is face-to-face with the woman again, who has silently but quickly made her way next to Kate in her kitchen.
"This is for you, detective," Elena says softly, as if the two women are ages-old friends. Kate reaches out with steady hands – she forces the trembling to stop, as she accepts the box from the assassin. Without a doubt, she is the most disarming and frightening person – man or woman – that Kate Beckett has ever laid eyes on. And that is saying something.
"What is this?" Kate asks, knowing that she is expected to open the box, here and now. If not, well, she wouldn't have received the personal attention of a personal delivery.
"Open it, so we both will know," Elena responds, still smiling, still snake-like. This time, Kate can't hide the shudder that rocks her body. Elena sees it also, and nods her head, imperceptibly. She is sizing the woman up. Who knows – one day she may have the supreme honor and responsibility of dispatching the detective.
Kate mentally chides herself for showing weakness. Somehow, she realizes that the woman recognizes it, which makes it all the worse.
"You know," Kate begins, staring at the box while trying to regain her footing, her composure, in her own home, "I've had a tough night, and now a complete stranger comes into my house and assaults me. You do know that it is a felony to assault a police officer," Kate smiles, starting to regain her confidence.
Elena smiles as well, admiring the quickness in which the detective recovers. "Yes, she would be interesting . . . in so many ways," the woman thinks to herself, as she responds.
"Let's just say, detective, that I am of position – and in position, I might add – to do exactly that if I so choose," she tells Kate. "Besides – I was merely protecting myself. I rang the doorbell," she continues, still smiling as she raises her forefinger, ticking items off.
"I came bearing gifts," she says, lifting her middle finger, counting off the second item.
"I did not let your head hit the ground, sparing you the indignity of unconsciousness," she says, raising her third finger.
"I greeted you with a kiss on the cheek," she says, raising her pinky finger.
"And I returned your weapon to you, loaded," she says, raising her thumb into the equation.
"In five different ways, I attempted to greet you in a friendly, hospitable manner. The fact that you lost your balance during our greeting was likely due to my clumsiness. Forgive me if I tripped you," she finishes with a smile.
Kate Beckett stares at the woman for a few seconds, before breaking out into laughter. This surreal morning, following her evening of sleeplessness, finally overtakes her. She tosses the box back towards Elena, and as the assassin opens her hands to catch the box, Kate extends her right leg and foot, catching the back of the assassin's calf. Elena briefly loses her balance and in that second, Kate is on her, twisting her around. The box falls, crashing to the floor, while Kate holds the woman in a tight half-nelson.
"I'm sorry. I must have lost my balance," Kate whispers, smiling in the woman's ear.
A second later, a stunned Kate Beckett is airborne yet again. Elena has dropped quickly to the floor, her hands completely vertical, her back arching again. This time the Russian jumps from this position, her legs flipping forward so that they catch around Kate's neck. The assassin now holds herself for a second in a handstand move – her hands on the ground, her calves scissor-locked around Kate's neck. She then flips her legs backward, pulling Beckett with her and sending her airborne. She releases Kate while she is still in the air so as not to break the detective's neck. Kate lands on the floor next to her kitchen counter.
This time, she has hit the ground hard, and for a moment, the air has been knocked out of her. She struggles for her breath, struggling to maintain consciousness.
"No, dammit!" she says softly, but out loud. "Stay awake, Kate," she tells herself – again, out loud.
A full forty-five seconds pass by before Kate can bring herself to her feet. The room has stopped spinning but her head continues to ring softly. Pulling herself to her feet, she turns, looking for the stranger in her home. She finds Elena sitting on her sofa, legs crossed, browsing through a magazine.
"Do make yourself at home," Kate muses while running her hands through her hair. Elena simply smiles at her. She likes this woman, this detective.
"I had to try," Kate tells her, as she approaches the woman who sits on her sofa.
"I am glad that you did," the assassin admits, genuinely. "I have heard much about you, detective. The absence of some form of retaliation on your part would have been very disappointing."
"Kate merely nods, as she sits in the chair across from the sofa, across from the woman, and holds out her hand.
"Let's see this supposed gift of yours," she tells her. Elena hands her the box that she had picked up from the ground for a second time. Kate wastes no time in opening the box. She removes the cover, and successfully stifles a gasp. She stares at the eight severed fingers and two thumbs that sit – still on ice – in the box.
"Upon investigation, you will discover that your gift has no fingerprints," Elena says, and then smiles when she gets the expected response – raised eyebrows and a glance from the corner of her eyes – from the detective.
Kate raises her head, closing her eyes, and takes a deep breath. Opening her eyes as she exhales, she glances down again at the contents of the box, careful not to reach inside and touch anything. But even from here, she can tell that the woman speaks the truth. There are no fingerprints on the digits.
"I assume you know the owner of these," Kate says. It is not a question.
"Yes, I am aware of the identity of their former owner," Elena smiles.
"And I can assume that the fact that these were in your possession somehow absolves Richard Castle, who is being held for the murder of this . . . this . . ."
"While you try to find the words you are missing, let me answer your question, detective," Elena interrupts. "No, this does not necessarily absolve your Mr. Castle of anything. This package was delivered to my client – much as I am delivering it to you."
Kate considers these words, staring at the woman. She quickly decides that this is not a woman who would lie about this – or pretty much anything else, for that matter. She does not need to.
"First, he is not 'my' Mr. Castle," Kate begins, and for the first time she sees genuine emotion recorded on Elena Markov's face. She realizes immediately that – with her words – she has made a grave error.
"If he is not – quote – your – unquote – Mr. Castle, then he is a great fool for what he has done for you, detective." She speaks the words 'quote' and 'unquote' with two lifted fingers on each hand. Even this simple act is done with menace.
"I did not mean –" Kate begins, but is once again interrupted.
"What you did or did not mean is irrelevant," Elena tells her, now no longer smiling. "What you said is. Regardless, the fingers you now possess are not the true gift I deliver to you. The note inside the lid is my gift to you. It is a gift I now question your worthiness to receive."
With that, the assassin stands, more quickly than Kate can imagine, and walks to Kate's front door. She reaches for the knob and turns it, to let herself out, before she turns back to Kate Beckett to issue her final words.
"Prove yourself worthy of this gift, detective," Elena Markov tells her. Her eyes have seemingly darkened. Impossible, of course, but the illusion stands in Kate's mind. Her smile is gone. In its place is something else entirely.
"If you do not, perhaps we shall meet again . . . under less playful and friendly terms."
The door closes, and for a few seconds, Kate Beckett continues to stare at the closed door, considering the not-so-veiled threat from her visitor. She blinks such thoughts away as she considers the woman's words.
"The note inside the lid is my gift to you."
Elena's words replay themselves in Kate's mind, and Kate immediately glances back down at the severed fingers in the box – easily the most gruesome gift she has ever received, both because of what they are and who they once belonged to. She places the box back down on the coffee table in front of her, and picks up the lid. Turning it upside down, she sees the envelope taped inside. She puts the lid down and goes to her bedroom, to her closet, and opens a drawer in the chest of drawers against the wall there. She pulls out a pair of sanitary gloves, and puts them on as she walks back to her kitchen.
She picks up the lid again, and now retrieves the envelope and opens it. She extracts a single page with typewritten words, and begins reading.
Detective,
I don't know how you discovered my plans for you and your friends. Rest assured, I have reconsidered, and I readily admit my error. The agreement that was made to protect your life is now back in effect, permanently, with no conditions attached. I trust that this consideration will be acceptable and that you will have our favorite novelist call off his assassin. With your agreement, detective, our paths should never cross again.
Respectfully
The note is unsigned. Regardless, Kate has dropped the single page to the ground, staring at her empty hands. She is rocked to the core by what she has just read. She bends to pick the paper up from the floor, and reads it again.
And yet again, a third time.
Tears form in her eyes. Tears of anger. Tears of anguish. Tears of frustration, betrayal, fear, guilt. And yes, tears of gratefulness.
The questions swirl in her mind, racing like a merry-go-around in an amusement park. Beyond the questions, however, the powerful inferences dominate her thoughts.
She was in danger, but did not know it. The man who had orchestrated previous attempts on her life was getting ready to do so again, but has changed his mind.
These plans that this man had did not stop with her. It included her 'friends'. Which friends? Esposito? Ryan? Castle? Did they include her dad, Jim Beckett? She doesn't have any answers for these questions.
For some reason, her enemy has changed his mind. She wonders what these severed fingers have to do with anything. Immediately her eyes are drawn to a single sentence in the letter.
The agreement that was made to protect your life is now back in effect, permanently, with no conditions attached.
There was an agreement in place. An agreement to keep her alive. To protect her. An agreement that – evidently – her unknown and unseen enemy was ready to break. But with whom did he make this agreement? Who is – or was – this agreement with?
The answer is obvious, inescapable, and answered in the next sentence.
I trust that this consideration will be acceptable and that you will have our favorite novelist call off his assassin.
"Castle," she says out loud.
Somehow, he has – rather, had – made a deal. With whom, she doesn't know. How he found this person, she doesn't know. Why he has never said a word of this, she doesn't know. She finds herself clinching her fists, her short fingernails digging into the inside of each hand. She is furious.
The emotion passes within a few seconds, as she continues re-reading the note. Her visitor was correct. It is – indeed – a gift. It begins to answer questions she did not even have. Her eyes fall on the tail end of that sentence.
. . . and that you will have our favorite novelist call off his assassin.
Castle knows an assassin!?
How is this possible?
Moreover, somehow Castle discovered that whatever agreement he put into place was about to be violated – and his solution was to dispatch an assassin?
Not even in one of his admittedly imaginative novels would she believe such a proposition. Yet here it sits, face-to-face with her. It's clear that an assassin has just visited her. That much is abundantly clear. And Richard Castle, a man who she thought she knew quite well – it turns out he has access to an assassin as well. Evidently, she does not know the man as well as she thinks.
She is not sure whether or not this information is comforting or not, and right now, she is leaning towards 'not', when it hits her.
Somehow, Scott Dunn's death was not what it seemed. At all. Somehow his death is tied to all of this. She closes her eyes, her remarkable memory rewinding and replaying her conversation with her unnamed visitor – sans the takedowns, of course.
"No, this does not necessarily absolve your Mr. Castle of anything. This package was delivered to my client – much as I am delivering it to you."
She starts ticking off what she now begins to realize. The box of fingers she now stares at, that sit on her coffee table, it seems have been piling up frequent flyer miles. They were delivered to 'her client'. So the assassin delivery woman works for 'the man', her enemy.
"A letter has been delivered to me, indicating that I should tell Castle to cease and desist with his plans to use an assassin to take out my unknown and unseen enemy," she says to herself, as she unknowingly raises a second finger.
The conclusion she reaches is frightening.
The original package was delivered to her enemy from one Richard Castle. Somehow, for some reason, he is using Scott Dunn – Scott Dunn's death – as a message to her enemy. And her enemy has received this message – this threat – and is now asking her, her, to call Castle off.
Richard Castle is in jail, being held by the feds. She now begins to question exactly what he is being held for. She doesn't believe in coincidences. All of this is tied together somehow, and the feds have swooped in far too quickly for this to not be related.
"I don't care if Dunn was taken from the feds, this is too tidy," she says aloud. She closes her eyes again, this time thinking about the writer. She has – with her lie – created a chasm between the two. And now, it appears that he had his own secret as well. She stands, walking back to her bedroom and reaches down on the nightstand to retrieve her cell phone. She clicks on text messages, and finds the string from her chat with Jordan the previous evening.
KATE: You think he did it?
JORDAN: Yes
She sits on the side of her bed, staring at the two lines on her phone, and finally breaks down, her body shuddering with sobs.
"Castle," she mutters as tears stream down her face. "What have you done? What have I done?"
It is now clearly obvious that both of them have lied, in one way or another, to each other. This is obvious. The realization, however, that his 'lie', his 'omission' is far more altruistic in nature condemns her. She is angry with him. She is furious that he would make a deal for her, as if she were some 'thing', some 'object' that cannot make her own decisions.
Yet she is equally angry at herself for being angry with him. How can she be angry with someone who has – evidently – risked his life for her own, risked his own family by putting a deal in place with a ruthless enemy? She suddenly wonders if that is the reason that he has stayed with her for the past months – having declared his love to her, yet never seeing it reciprocated. Was it 'the deal' that has kept him here?
Her anger with herself turns to full-fledged guilt when she now considers that he is in jail – he is willingly in jail – for an act that she now realizes goes far beyond revenge. He has sent a message, and the message has been received. The fact that he is not shouting his innocence to the world right now tells her that the trade – his message for his freedom – was one he made willingly.
And with that, the tears come faster.
Outside, Two blocks down from Kate Beckett's Apartment Home, 7:05 a.m., Friday March 16, 2012
Elena Markov hits SEND on her Twitter account, with the following message.
"Transaction Complete. #RushinHome"
Her message to Senator William Bracken will be unmistakable and understood. The package has been delivered, and the Senator will rest more easily – at least for a few days.
Elena now punches up a number to a burner phone, and two rings later, she is rewarded.
"Everything finished?" Jackson Hunt asks her.
"Yes. All is as you suggested it would be," she tells him, then adds almost as an after-thought. "Well, almost all."
"Oh?"
"Later. Let's just say I question whether she is worthy of your son."
"Do tell," he states, and Elena cannot tell what is going on in her friend's mind. It is not often that this occurs.
"We can talk later," she says, breaking into his thoughts.
"Yes – I would like that," and she hears and feels the smile he gives her. She returns it.
"As would I," she tells him. "I am checking in and will await your call."
She clicks off without waiting for a goodbye from her friend. She adjusts the blonde wig she now wears. She had left her bag at the door, outside Kate's apartment. No one bothers a small duffle bag, she has learned. In the elevator, she had quickly placed the hazel green contacts in each eye, and put the wig on her head, before depressing the down button that took her back to the street.
Now, she walks into the hotel and saunters to the check-in counter. Giving false credentials, of course, she checks in under the name Lana Markson. It is an alias she often uses when she opts for the blonde persona. Within minutes, she has her key and is on the elevator on the way up to the suite on the 40th floor, which will be her home for the next few weeks while the man she trusts with her life executes the next few phases of his game.
She smiles, anticipating the role he will ask her to play next. But for now, she can use a few hours of sleep.