The Long Game: Chapter 14
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
New York Presbyterian Hospital in Lower Manhattan, at 6:15 p.m., Monday, March 19, 2012
Richard Castle lies in the large bed, slightly elevated in the private – and highly protected – single patient room on the fourth floor. The location of the room has been kept from the general public. Despite their best efforts, the media has not been able to get an accurate location and so reports range from the author resting on the second floor, to the fifth floor, to other reports where he has been transported to a different hospital under a different name. All orchestrated, of course, by one Jackson Hunt.
To say that this has been a long, grueling day for the novelist is a dramatic understatement. The ambulance had made good time in getting to the courthouse and subsequently whisking Castle away, all the while doing all they could to stop the bleeding. And yeah, there had been a lot of blood. Far more than he had expected. And the pain . . .
What should have been roughly a two hour surgical procedure to repair a slightly fractured clavicle – the bullet had nicked the strong bone on the way in – ended up being much more than that. A clean, through and through shot, the bullet had damaged the back rib cage and muscles on the exit. The blood loss had been significant.
For Castle, it was far from what he had expected.
When Jackson Hunt first postulated the concept of a shooter attempting to take his life, Castle was – in his normal fashion – both reasonably frightened and unreasonably intrigued. His reaction had amused his father, and over time, intrigue won out, as Hunt had related a time or two when he had been shot himself. He had promised his son two things.
"First of all, Richard, it's going to hurt like hell, I'm not going to lie to you."
Castle had taken this information in stride, but that truly wasn't what was concerning him. A shot from what they anticipated would be over 700 feet? Oh hell yes, that concerned him greatly. Which led to Hunt's second promise.
"She is one of the best shooters in the world, son. She knows where to hit you, and she won't miss."
Call it his warped nature, but the idea of getting shot by a female assassin – one who his father has described as one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen? Well, he's had his heart broken already by one knockout, what's a gunshot from another?
See, it had sounded so logical, so inventive, so . . . so cool in the author's mind over the past few days. The reality?
'Hurt like hell' doesn't even begin to describe what he is feeling now. The initial force of impact had knocked him backwards. The thud of the back of his head on the hard surface didn't crack the skull, fortunately, but it has left him with a concussion. And that first shot of pain had been intense. Far more than he anticipated. In fact, within a minute of being placed into the ambulance for the ride to the hospital, the pain had rendered him unconscious. When he came to, he was being jostled around – again – being transported from the ambulance to the emergency room. There had been flashing bulbs from a few media photographers as he was rushed in through the emergency doors, as a few had correctly guessed which hospital he was being taken to. He, of course, had been oblivious to this, as the only flashing lights he had seen were caused by the intense jolts of pain racking his upper chest and his back, where the bullet had exited.
The doctors have marveled at Castle's great fortune – if being shot can be referred to in that manner. The shot entered on the bottom of the clavicle – in the middle of the bone - causing damage to that bone, and exiting slightly lower, through a rib extended to the back, and doing significant muscle damage. But slightly higher, and the bullet would have shattered the clavicle. Slightly lower, and we are talking now about major internal organs. Slightly more to the left, by the surgeon's view, and we are talking about potential spine damage.
"He's a very lucky man," Dr. Paul Westfield had commented during the three hour surgery. As it turned out, replacing the blood loss was of high importance. They have placed a titanium plate on the clavicle, and mended the muscle damage as best they could.
"He's going to hurt like hell though," one of the assisting surgical nurses had commented, to the agreement of all in the room.
Fortunately, the drugs have allowed him to sleep most of the day, and the couple of times he has awakened, it only took a tap on the morphine drip has helped him go back under fairly quickly. Now, however, he has been moved out of ICU and into this room, and is now awakening again.
He feels a hand in his – actually, a hand in both of his hands. He blinks his eyes open and tries to stifle – unsuccessfully – a small moan that escapes from his lips. To his right stands Alexis, leaning slightly over him, her right hand covering his left hand. He left arm is in a sling, and his left hand is draped across his chest. She wears a New York Yankee baseball cap. Seeing the cap – and not seeing the long strands of red hair that should be cascading down on her shoulders – immediately reminds him of one of the reasons why he is doing this. The jolt of resolve this brings is instantaneous, along with the pain he feels now.
Also to his right, in a chair, sits Martha, both of her hands covering his right hand. Alexis towers over the sitting Martha, with her left hand resting on her grandmother's shoulder. He immediately notices the tears in his mother eyes, running down her cheeks. It is a sight so unusual for him, for his mother to show this much raw emotion for him. He also notices, however, no tears adorning his daughter's features. Instead, there is a quiet fury that he knows simmers just below her surface.
He will have to talk with her.
"Oh Richard," he hears Martha speaking. "We were so frightened. I know that we knew –"
Her statement is interrupted by a tight and painful squeeze from Alexis on her shoulder, with a small but strong voice.
"Grams!" she hisses in a whisper, leaning down to her grandmother's ear, as she reminds Martha that they have to be very careful of what they say in public, especially in the hospital. Jackson Hunt was very adamant on this point.
Castle can't find the words, the strength to speak for a few seconds, working his mouth and tongue. Alexis seems to sense his frustration.
"Dad, it's okay," the young girl tells her father. "Don't try and speak yet, if you can't."
"I'm . . . I'm good pumpkin," he finally manages, taking a couple of short quick breaths. Even with the pain medications, long deep breaths are not going to happen right now. At least not intentionally.
She tightens her grip on her father's hand. She accepts that he is safe, and yes, so far everything has gone pretty much the way her grandfather had laid out.
Her grandfather!
So much has happened to – and for – Alexis Castle in the past month. She's been kidnapped, mentally assaulted, altered physically, borne witness to similar atrocities committed against an even younger girl in her presence, met a grandfather she never knew she had, and now watched her own father shot. Just a few months away from high school graduation, her life has been – literally turned upside down, right-side up, and then upside down again.
And she knows it isn't over!
She knew her dad would be shot, and it would look for more serious than it was. She knew he was never – theoretically – in real 'life or death' danger. But still, it looked every bit as horrific on television that Jackson Hunt had envisioned. It is uncertain whether or not Hunt had counted on the massive blood loss or the need for a couple of bags of blood. But evidently, his assassin had taken all of that into account. They wanted it to look life threatening, and – okay – mission accomplished!
Still, Alexis wonders just who in the world is so important, so dangerous that her own father has to be pulled into all of this, has to be shot like this.
For her part, Detective Kate Beckett stands off to the side, next to the door at the entry area of the room. She does this for two reasons. First, she wants to give Martha and Alexis there time with Castle. They are his family and she can see how distraught both are.
Second, however, even though she knows there is are two plainclothes officers in hospital scrubs walking this floor, staying close to the elevator and stairs, while a third plainclothes officer rolls a medical unit back and forth on this hallway, monitoring the door – she is taking no chances. If someone enters the room, she wants to be there to grant or disallow entry.
She takes in the family reunion, feeling a surprising sense of emptiness. She feels like a third wheel in this room, and it bothers her. The fact that it bothers her surprises her even more. Exactly when did Richard Castle become so important to her on such a personal level? Yeah, she has known how he feels about her, for almost a year now, and she has done nothing with that knowledge. And worse, he found out about her duplicity in the worst possible way – from someone else.
So what has changed? Because it is clear something has changed. She knows this from the tears that stain her cheeks. She knows this from the ache in her heart that has not left since the moment that first shot rang out and she watched him fall back, a splotch of widening red on his chest. Something awakened in her in that moment – something for the man in the bed she now observes with his family. But that scene keeps shifting, changing on her. One minute he is laid out on the steps of the courthouse, bleeding out. The next, he is bleeding out in the grass of the cemetery, having jumped in front of the shot meant for her.
The images continue to shift back and forth in her mind, forcing her to blink a few times until she sees clearly again – she is in his patient room, and he is coming around, talking to his family.
Someone had tried to kill him. Someone had tried to kill a writer? With a sniper? Seriously?
The image of the female assassin in her apartment, with a message she was supposed to deliver to Castle haunts her. Was she supposed to get this information to him sooner? And had she done so, would this still have occurred? She couldn't see him in the holding cell – hell, she didn't even know where he was being held. And for once, the feds actually kept a tight lid on something with no leaks. Had Jordan not given him the message before she took off? Of course she did, she had confirmed that with the Federal profiler just a few hours ago.
That had been an interesting phone call – as Special Agent Jordan Shaw had called in more of a panic than Kate might have expected. Shaw had heard about the shooting from colleagues that morning. There was no reason for the special agent to be fixated on the television this morning. She knew that Castle was being arraigned that morning, and she knows an arraignment is standard stuff. She had spoken with the author, given him the message from Beckett, and taken off back to Chicago. Today was supposed to be just a normal, back to the grind day for Jordan Shaw.
Unknown to Shaw, Castle knew what was coming next. He had chosen not to share this with her, however, as Hunt had warned him that no one – outside of Alexis and Martha – could be trusted and brought into this loop. And even with them, Hunt has told them most – but not all – of the plan.
"No one means no one, son," he had told him. "That means your detective friends, that means your FBI friend, it means anyone else you are close with that I might not know about."
So no, Jordan hadn't been privy to any of this – and her reaction had been similar to Kate's. She had spent the morning recounting her helicopter ride with the author, her visit to his cells – both in the Hamptons and at the federal holding tank. What had she missed? Could she have prevented this?
Kate watches the very much in-pain Richard Castle attempt to console his inconsolable mother, who weeps at his bedside. Knowing and seeing are often two different things, and that is Martha Rodgers right now.
"I'm fine, Mother," Castle says softly to the older woman sitting at his bedside. His heart is breaking at what he is putting her through, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the second piece of the reason, standing at the doorway. He is surprised that she is here – why it surprises him he does not know. In the end, his expectations of Kate Beckett have taken a nosedive in the past weeks, for good reason.
"I'm okay, Mother," he repeats again. He gazes up at Alexis, who simply returns the gaze. Somehow he draws strength from his young daughter, and a small smile breaks across his face.
"Pumpkin," he manages.
"Don't talk, Dad," Alexis repeats.
"Are you in pain?" Martha asks. She is hoping he will give her this tiny lie. She is hoping he will tell her he is feeling fine.
"The meds are nice," he says softly, continuing to smile. He glances back at Alexis, who looks highly unconvinced.
"Pumpkin, look at me. I'm good, okay?"
Alexis knows he will be fine. She knows this was a ruse. More than this, however, she knows what is coming next, what is coming later tonight. It doesn't make any of this any easier.
A few minutes pass, and Kate overhears Alexis say something about grabbing some coffee, a bite to eat. The two women begin to move toward the door, and Kate uses this as her opportunity to move forward away from the door, to the side. Martha walks to the door, her head down, still struggling with her emotions. Alexis takes a step towards Kate, offering her hand.
"Hi Kate," she says softly. "I got your phone call yesterday, and I'm sorry I didn't return your call. I just haven't been . . . I just –"
"Don't worry about it, Alexis," Kate tells her. "Do me a favor, stick around. Don't leave until you and I can talk, okay?"
"Okay," Alexis says, then turns to the door and is gone, leaving Kate Beckett and Richard Castle alone in his room. She takes the eight or nine steps to his bed, and glances down at him, then sits quietly. Without realizing it, unconsciously, she slips her hand inside his. It surprises him as much as it does her. They maintain eye contact for a few seconds as she adjusts herself.
"How do you feel, Castle?" she asks, and she can feel the tears welling in her eyes, even though she fights them. He is surprised to see such emotion in her eyes. Emotion for him.
"Like I've been shot", he replies with a wistful smile, eyes never leaving hers.
"Well, your sense of humor is still intact," she mumbles, smiling through wet eyes.
"Yeah, that and not much else, I'm afraid," he manages, blinking the pain away quickly, and pumping another drop of morphine. He immediately returns his gaze to her.
"What do you remember?" she asks. It is the question that changes their relationship, their dynamic, as he pauses and deepens his gaze, holding her eyes just long enough before answering.
"I remember everything," he says softly, never taking his piercing blue eyes away from her.
For her part, she holds his gaze as well, never wilting, never retreating, fighting against the tears that threaten to wash over. She fails, as a single tear sprints down her cheek. Finally, still holding his gaze, she responds just as softly.
"I deserve that."
He simply nods his head once, still holding her eyes. Finally, she glances away, pulling her hand away with her gaze, but he surprises her by tightening his grip on her hand, forcing her gaze to return.
"Stop running, Kate," is all he says.
She stares at him, and he can see the fight or flight war waging inside her.
"Go if you want," he tells her, "but someday you're going to run too far – and I won't be there." He grits his teeth, sucking in a breath of air.
"If I am important to you at all, then stop running. Now. Today," he gets out between gritted teeth, fighting the wave of pain and nausea that suddenly overtakes him. He pushes the button for another drip of morphine, but none comes, as it is far too soon for the next drip. He loosens his grip on her hand, allowing her to make her decision on her own. She does so instantly, tightening her hand around his.
He closes his eyes and moves his head back so it is facing the ceiling. He silently muses to himself how strange life is. A gunshot – that time to Kate – caused his long-dormant emotions to spill over, admitting his feelings for her. Now, almost a year later, another gunshot – this time to him – has melted his anger towards her, replacing it with a simple acceptance.
A single tear breaks free from the corner of his eye, and Kate Beckett cannot tell if it is from the pain from the bullet or the pain she has caused him. Regardless, her tears fall naturally, quickly, coinciding with his single droplet. Since the moment he was shot, since that moment in the break room back at the precinct, everything suddenly crystalized for the detective. The cute banter, the moments of unexplained jealousy, the little glances, the winks and smiles . . . the coffees . . . the damn coffees – suddenly it all fell into place, and she knew her epiphany occurred too late, as she watched the red stain on the television screen grow.
For a full two minutes neither says a word, the only sound in the room is his raspy breathing and the occasional beep of a monitoring machine.
Finally, Kate breaks the silence.
"We aren't leaving any stones unturned," she promises him. "We'll find whoever did this, Castle. I will find whoever did this."
"Drop it, Kate," he simply says, his eyes still closed and head facing the ceiling, away from her.
"No way, Castle," she argues softly. "I almost . . . I almost lost you today. Do you know how that feels? Do you know how it feels to watch . . ."
She stops her words, and releases a slow, sad laugh.
"Yeah, of course you do," she reflects. For a few more seconds, they both are silent.
"I can't let this go, Rick," she says, now finally using his first name – feeling a different connection with him. "I can't. We've got to find –"
"Kate, I said to drop it," he says, this time more firmly. Too firmly, as her eyes widen, brimming with new tears as she begins to comprehend what he is not saying.
"You know who did this, don't you!" she says, louder than she intended. It is not a question.
"Oh God, Castle, what the hell is going on? I can't protect you if –"
"That's right, Kate," he interrupts, squeezing her hand more tightly than before, his eyes boring into hers. "You can't protect me."