*45 days into his imprisonment*
In moments of perfect lucidity, he wanted to die. He certainly didn't deserve to survive after collaborating with a serial killer to kidnap and murder his almost-wife. But those moments were extremely rare; Dr. Nieman hadn't let up on the manipulation of his body's natural cycles of wakefulness, the torture effective in keeping him under Tyson's control. He and Tyson had been working closely for a few days, and it wasn't often that he didn't feel like an obscenely immoral puppet.
He was forced to swallow pills that brought him to such a productive high that he probably could have planned another fifteen violent crimes, the ideas coming furiously and showing no signs of slowing. At times he swore he could actually feel the neurons firing, could almost see the mapping of his brain as he offered more suggestions to Tyson.
Not long afterward, he would be slammed into a drug-induced sleep full of hot flashes and nightmares, his voice made hoarse by screams he never remembered. There were crescent-shaped marks left on the skin of his palms and an ever-present ache from where he pulled against the restraints that were in place more often than not, probably to counter the unpredictability of the narcotics.
After Castle had finally snapped, reaching out to Tyson and ready to help, they'd had an oddly calm discussion about the basic structure of the plan; Castle would draft the outline and fill in the key plot points, he'd undergo some sort of memory wipe, then he'd be released to resume his life as it was before his wedding day. He was unclear – and more than a little concerned – about the plan to mess with his head, but Tyson's only response when asked was that Castle wasn't the only one who "knew a guy." Well, that and the promise that Castle wouldn't really want to remember any part of his compliance anyway. It was probably true.
And it was absurd, every aspect of what was happening. The fact that they each had a notebook in which to take notes, like it was some sort of committee meeting at the office. The way they were discussing illicit strategies after dinner, Tyson's eyes lighting up in a way he was sure his own did when he theorized with Kate in the middle of a case; crime planning replacing crime solving as the foreplay of choice. They had agreed upon the idea of the book dedications easily, Tyson seeing it as a deeply personal way to screw with Castle's head while leading him on with just enough information. Public transportation seemed like an excellent way to ensure that cameras would capture some key moments along whatever route they predetermined, so Tyson brought in a large MTA map for them to study before they finalized those details.
Suddenly, Castle's head snapped up, slow in putting it all together. "Wait a minute. You actually want these clues to help me? You want me to catch you?
Tyson laughed, chilling and far too real. "No, no, no. I don't want you to catch me. If anything, the catching will go the other way around. No, I just want you to chase me."
Castle sat with that for a minute, and Tyson let him. "Okay, so we're planning a crime in which the perfect clues are left. In which you can rely on our team, access to the city's cameras, etc., to help me figure out where you've taken Kate. My memory will be wiped in some way that you refuse to share with me, but that's only to keep me from remembering my role in this." He paused, knowing that Tyson wasn't that charitable. "No, you're erasing my memory so that I don't remember everything, because the key to this is your endgame. You want me to run at this without thinking, grabbing at each new clue and refusing to listen to any reason. You want me to be so blinded by my need to find Kate that I don't realize that I've fallen into your trap until it's too late. Until you've got both of us."
Tyson's smile was confirmation enough.
*47 days into his imprisonment*
"So tell me, Castle, why did you become a mystery writer? When did you first tap into your dark side? As I recall, the last time we tried to have this conversation we were interrupted by a phone call."
Castle was just barely waking up, but he clawed at consciousness to make eye contact with Tyson. "You know, I'm not the only one who pushes for answers to questions that shouldn't be asked. Drop it."
It was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Tyson silently waved Dr. Nieman over to Castle's bedside and she prepared a syringe; god only knew what he was about to be subjected to, but he was certain he was too weak to hold back his secrets for long.
He had no idea how much time it took to break him that time, but from somewhere deep inside his own head, he heard himself tell a tale of years before.
I had an extremely lonely childhood and an active imagination. I'd never been great at making friends, especially because I bounced from school to school, but I learned how to entertain myself by escaping into the stories I created. Looking back, I was the perfect target, someone weak enough to be manipulated by the promise of friendship, and smart enough to get away with something that never should have happened at all.
When I was 11, a group of boys started inviting me to sit with them at lunch, to hang out after school. They were popular kids and it made me suspicious, of course, but not enough that I was going to turn away from the sudden attention. I wanted so desperately to be well-liked. When they finally confided in me that we were all going to play a prank on another kid in our class, a kid even more ignored than I was, I couldn't help the swell of pride at being part of their childish gang. It was so easy to turn against someone weaker if it meant that I got to be the victor for once.
We befriended him just long enough to coax him into meeting us at a park in Westchester County in the middle of the night. Specifically it was an area of the park known as Hollander's Woods, far away from routine patrols and intimidating enough for what we'd planned. It was early February and to say that this kid was naïve would be an understatement, but we knew that and used it to our advantage. I honestly don't remember the exact story we used to get him there, but whatever it was, it worked. And once he arrived, we were nothing but cruel. We managed to take his coat, pushed him around a bit, chased him through the trees, locked him in a maintenance shed, and listened just to hear him cry for his mommy and daddy.
Once we'd gotten our kicks, we left him there. It was dangerous and stupid; if a ranger hadn't been bored enough to wander through that corner of the park at the right time to hear him scream, who knows what might have happened to him. And, surprisingly, he ended up telling on all of us, but here's the thing…I'd set up an alibi before I'd snuck out that night. I'd known what we were going to do was wrong and I set up a goddamn alibi and went along with all of it because I got to feel the rush of that power.
That night haunted me for so long. I suppose it still does. Because how could I have forgotten everything I knew – years of loneliness and hurt – and abruptly inflicted pain on a kid who knew those same things? How could I have been so enthralled by the promise of being stronger, smarter, and more wanted? How could being evil have come so easily to me, if only for a night? The premeditation. The alibi. How could I?
Years later, it made me wonder about the criminals we hear about every day. Are the assaults and kidnappings and murders committed by truly heinous people? Or are the bad guys simply normal people who were too swiftly enchanted by something they'd been missing in their lives? I started writing my way through those thoughts as an attempt to process them, but my knack for storytelling came into play and they became mystery novels, much less about the perpetrators themselves and more about the way they were finally caught and punished. Because I never was. And I think I should have been.
*57 days into his imprisonment*
It was done. Castle had put together a horrifying game that he himself would have to play, full of the clever clues and tortuous twists one would expect to find in any of his books. He'd figured out how to get both Jerry Tyson and Kelly Nieman into the precinct, under the watchful eye of everyone but Kate Beckett, who would run off alone, guard down and vulnerable. He'd planned the entire escape route, from the meeting point with a yet-unknown accomplice to the site of Tyson's ultimate trap, and suggested a few of the not-so-random objects that would be left behind. Knowing that he had to lead himself to where they were going to hold Kate, Castle wrote his book dedications; each one was carefully worded to help him along, while being subtle enough to guarantee that he wouldn't be able to skip ahead in the chase.
He questioned his own sanity and wondered if he'd ever be able to atone for his newest sins.
"Mr. Castle, it's time to get dressed. You're going to be running an errand before we let you go back to the city, and Jerry will be here to pick you up shortly." Castle blinked in surprise at the news, while Dr. Nieman draped clean clothes over the foot of the bed and moved to unfasten each of the restraints.
She left him alone and he changed as quickly as his weakened body would allow, accidentally knocking his pillow onto the floor as he maneuvered around the bed. He startled when he heard the click of the plastic hitting the floor. Shit. The memory card from so long ago. How could he have forgotten that? He hurriedly picked it up, reaching into the pillow case for the letters he knew must be there too, and managing to slip everything into his shoe for safekeeping. A moment later he had the foresight to grab a pen, a writer's instinct more than anything else, and tucked it into his pocket. By the time Tyson arrived, Castle was ready to go, though simultaneously terrified of readjusting to the outside world. The sunlight nearly blinded him, but he ducked into the waiting car and closed his eyes as soon as he could.
Several hours passed – he was relatively certain – before they crossed into Canada; he wasn't even going to ask how his passport had ended up in Tyson's hands. He drifted in and out of sleep most of the trip, but was awakened at some point by a phone call in which Tyson asked about the currents off the coast and where to "dump him so he doesn't get completely lost." It made him reflexively wiggle his foot against the items he'd hid there; he wondered if there'd be a safer place for them away from whatever water he was headed for. He was weirdly comfortable about the fact that Tyson would continue to keep him alive, their plans requiring it, but he needed a way to preserve the card and letters.
Then a bit of luck went his way; the car stopped in front of a bank and, for once, Tyson's demand was everything Castle could have wanted.
"What are we doing?"
Tyson handed him a key. "You're going to retrieve something from my safe deposit box. You're authorized on the account, so you'll have no problem getting in. There's a large envelope I need, and don't even think about opening it. It's nothing for you to worry about."
As Castle walked into the bank, his only regret was his decision to keep the involvement of Tyson and Nieman to himself. Now that he was going to survive, having written proof of everything that had happened and, even more importantly, everything that was about to happen, would have made all the difference in the world. Unfortunately, Tyson's eyes were on him and he was going to be pushing his luck enough. At least this was one way to make sure that the video and letters eventually found their way to the ones he loved.
He left the bank only minutes later, Tyson's envelope in his hands and a duplicate safe deposit key in his shoe.
*59 days into his imprisonment*
He was camping near the beach? He wasn't entirely sure. A man he hadn't seen before had been spending time with him in his tent. But camping? Where was Tyson? And when was he going home?
As night descended upon him, he was grateful that he'd taken the time the day before to tear a thread from his shirt and break apart his pen to use part of it as a ridiculous needle; he'd been able to clumsily sew the safe deposit key into his pants, making it far more secure than it had been before. And had he waited any longer to do it, he's not sure he could have remembered.
Even then, the past several weeks were blurring together. He was sick? He wrote a book? Instead of making it to his wedding, he played a game? Or maybe none of that happened. Maybe he'd just been knocked out when his car rolled off the side of the road. He'd been on his way to marry Kate, and there had been an accident. An accident. And then he was falling asleep again.
*64 days into his imprisonment*
He was unconscious when the Coast Guard found him floating aimlessly in a dinghy, his body sunburned and terribly dehydrated. But they were there to help him find his way back home.
