Chapter Three: Drifting on the ocean tide.
Five months ago:
Consciousness comes slowly; he drifts into awareness of sensations first. An 'off-ness' to his reality permeates his brain, which feels like molasses . . . thick and hard to move through. He becomes aware of the knowledge that the bed is weirdly firm beneath his shoulders - harder than it should be – and that it feels somehow smaller. And his arms are empty and that hasn't happened in . . . months.
His eyes are still closed against the increasing onslaught of consciousness, but there is a brightness beyond his shuttered lids that is defiantly wrong . . . and surely not NYC in January. And he hears it now - waves crashing loudly against a shoreline.
Should be dream but he knows it's not, knows something is wrong . . . feels it in his gut.
Richard Castle opens his eyes to entirely unfamiliar surroundings; a white picture-less room, a white bed, and a sandy tiled floor. The very atmosphere seems thick, with a strange – almost tropical smell, and the unmistakable tang of salt in the air. He turns his head on an overstuffed pillow and sees French doors to his right (across an expanse of empty bed where Beckett should be) - obscured by gauzy white curtains, an ocean breeze ghosts pleasantly over his skin.
It would be nice, but the fact is Kate's not beside him, and he doesn't know where he is; and as he goes to sit up, his head spins, his vision swimming and graying at the edges. The writer lies back down, forces a swell of nausea down his throat and clenches his fists as he forces himself to breathe through it – whatever 'it' is.
The wave passes, and Castle cautiously ponders how to try to sit up again. He rolls tentatively to his right side, focusing his eyes on the French doors and the bright sunshine he can tell lies beyond them. His stomach rolls but his eyesight does not dim and he uses the edge of the bed to steady himself. Grasps it under his hands and leverages himself up until he can swing his long legs over the side of the bed and quietly sit there.
His head is swimming again, but at least he's upright.
His limbs feel awkward and heavy now that he's more aware of them. The commands to 'move' from his brain taking side-roads and back-alleys before they obey him – and the one thing he's sure of right now – is that he's suffering the after effects of some nasty-ass drugs.
And he doesn't remember . . . the last thing he remembers is a sidewalk in New York.
And a gorgeous, smiling – and happy . . . Kate.
Kate.
All his.
There was a dinner with Kate – a special dinner – a special day, the details are foggy and then he's wandering down a sidewalk alone – but she's close . . . she's on the phone and then . . . then there's nothing.
From that moment to this one . . . there is just – nothing.
The writer struggles to stand, ignores the almost blinding way of vertigo that hits him full on as he forces his feet to move him across the room until he reaches the source of the sunlight and can push the flimsy material of the curtains aside. The French doors are open beyond the veil of net and as he shuffles forward – he can feel the heat of the day that lies beyond the threshold. Castle steps out into brilliant sunshine and . . . paradise?
Stunned Castle looks around him, he finds himself standing on the balcony of a house that he's never seen before, that rises up behind him. A huge white villa filling his view, it sits seemingly all alone on a cliff-top – with nothing but the endless blue of an ocean beyond it and nothing but an unrelenting sun above.
Fear begins its rise through the haze of his thoughts, comprehension wages a war.
Where is Kate? Where is she? And where the hell is he for that matter?
For this is so not New York in January – he doesn't honestly think it can possibly even be anywhere within the continental United States.
Panic flashes through him, steals his breath quick and tight and for a split second he wonders if there's any chance that maybe he's dead.
But then another wave of nausea has him doubling over the balcony's stone edge, retching terribly even as he apparently has nothing within him to actually throw up. And the author realizes he's not dead – he's just drugged and far – far away from where he should be.
Taking that into consideration then - he's missing Kate and his first order of priority needs to be establishing if somehow – somewhere – she's here too.
Nausea rises again and he sags over the side of the wall, presses his heated and sweating face against the sun-warmed stone and forces himself to breathe as evenly as he can currently manage. He's got to get out of this room, got to start looking . . . needs to find Kate.
But his stomach decides on this moment to cramp up, pain lancing up through his abdomen and Castle clutches at the wall to even stay on his feet – he feels miserable and he could kill for a glass of water right now.
There is a clink of glass against stone and his scrunched up eyes open to the sight of a large glass of iced-water as it's placed on the stone ledge by a man's tanned hand beside him.
He jumps back – startled, his feet slipping out under him, almost landing him on his backside - the stone wall abrades his hands as he clutches at it for purchase.
"You should drink all of that now that you're finally awake Mr. Castle. I guarantee you'll feel better pretty much instantly if you do." A deep, accent-less voice tells him calmly, and Castle follows the man's hand up to his arm and then up to his shoulder and then finally his uncooperative eyes locate his sudden companion's face.
Sudden and stealthy companion apparently. Castle knows he might have been doubled over and feeling sick but he still should have heard this man open the bedroom door, cross a tiled floor in shoes and enter the balcony behind him.
The man must move like a cat and Castle eyes him warily.
Tall – as tall as Castle himself, and athletic-looking, his companion is approximately his mother's age, and like Martha has a kind of 'timeless' quality to him. The writer finds himself looking into a weathered but still handsome face dominated by a set of arresting blue eyes. Dressed in black dress pants and an almost blindingly-white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up to expose strong tanned arms, the elegant looking sixty-something man is exactly what his mother would term 'a silver-fox' – full head of white hair shot through with some still dark strands included. There is however sternness etched into his features, an inscrutable air about him – and Castle senses a deadliness in this man that he cannot begin to explain.
He might be standing there quietly, staring calmly at the writer, a half-smile dancing on his mobile lips but this man is lethal – absolutely lethal . . . Castle would bet his life on it.
He just doesn't understand why.
"Where's Kate?" He demands – putting as much warning into his tone as he can – useless as he already senses that warning to be.
Surprisingly a smile breaks across the older man's face.
"I knew that would be your first question – I knew it – not for a second did I doubt it." Is all he says in reply.
Castle growls.
"I said . . . where is she?"
The older man shrugs.
"In New York I imagine . . . and most likely looking for you." He says.
The author studies his companion's face closely for a long moment . . . wondering whether or not to believe what he's being told. The deep blue eyes watching him so knowingly are disconcerting, but he gets the sense the man is being truthful. It's a weird sense – he can't explain why he's inclined to believe the man. There's just something . . . something about him.
Castle sags against the white stone balcony wall as yet another wave of dizziness hits him and his companion reaches out to steady him with a firm grip on his bicep.
"Easy Mr. Castle."
He picks up the glass of water in his free hand, hands it to him, but as Castle's about to take it gratefully he suddenly pauses.
The other man sighs.
"It isn't drugged I assure you. If it were required for you to still be under the influence then you would be. And before you can ask – I don't intend you any harm."
Castle relents, and then he takes the glass eagerly between trembling fingers. He downs it immediately, only realizing when the glass is completely drained just how parched he was. It feels like he hasn't had a drink in days – and maybe he hasn't.
Feeling stronger at once – as promised – the author straightens and pulls back to be released from the other man's support. His companion studies him – assessing it seems to ascertain that the younger man is once more steady on his feet before he inclines his head and let's go of his grip on Castle's arm.
"Where am I?"
"A long way from home – but safe Mr. Castle."
"Safe? Safe? Where is Kate? Why am here? Where am I? Tell me what's going on . . . or I swear I will . . . "
The other man interrupts.
"Or you'll what? Hmmm? Please don't embarrass yourself by making idle threats Mr. Castle. You are in no position to demand anything. However I am not opposed to providing you with the answers to your questions . . . I actually want your co-operation Richard - may I call you that? And I assure you – once again, that you are safe here. And that's the answer to your second question. You are here because it saves your life. They were about to kill you – and I may be many things but I could not permit that."
"You aren't making any sense." Castle says wearily. "I mean . . . why should you care about my safety . . . who the hell are you anyway?"
The older man reaches out and grips Castle's arm again.
"I think maybe you might have guessed it given time . . . seeing as how you have so obviously inherited both my build and my eyes . . . your mother even gave you my name – the one she knew anyway."
Castle's eyes widen, he goes to say something but nothing will come out."
"Martha knew me only as 'Richard Gabor' . . . I'm your father."