A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 8
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 9:25p.m. – At Richard Castle's Home in Sausalito
Richard Castle steps out of the shower, pulling a large, oversized San Francisco Giants towel off the hook and quickly drying off. He stares at the large mop of hair extending every which way, and snickers to himself, imagining her reaction if she could see him now.
'Her', of course, being one Kate Beckett.
He wraps the towel around his waist and makes his way out of the elaborate bathroom into his bedroom. Their bedroom. She is lying in wait for him, stretched out – naked herself - under the covers. One glance at his towel brings a mock frown to her face.
"Traitor," she smiles.
"Have to support the new home team, love," he smiles in return. He gathers himself, dropping the towel as he scoots under the covers with her. She both feels – and hears – his contentment as she nestles closer. She knows him well enough, after these couple of months of intimacy, to realize he is not in the zone this evening. He's distracted.
"Okay," she thinks to herself, "a little R&R will have to wait until another time."
"What's on your mind?" she asks, curling a finger across his chest. She already knows the answer. She knows what he is thinking about. It's all she has been thinking about as well, since this afternoon. It's all they talked about – in hushed words – at the cozy restaurant along the water just a few miles from their home. It's all they talked about during the short drive back to the house.
He brushes a hand along her breast, then chuckles.
"What is it?" she repeats, smiling easily.
"I'm distracted," he admits, smiling easily in return.
"Could have fooled me," she replies, her smile intact.
"I'm trying to decide what the distraction is," he tells her. "Am I wanting to make love to my best friend, and have this damn case distracting me? Is that it?"
She continues smiling, allowing him to finish, knowing he is talking as much to himself as he is to her.
"Or am I thinking about this damn case," he continues, "and my best friend lying naked in the bed with me is distracting me."
She smiles broader, and exhales slowly, beginning to wrestle herself away from him.
"Let me fix the problem for you," she says, pulling herself up on the edge of the bed, reaching for her t-shirt. He gently pulls her back toward him.
"Don't you dare leave," he warns her with a smile.
"Well, Mr. Castle," she smirks, "I don't want to be thought of as nothing more than a distraction."
"Okay, more like an incentive," he decides aloud.
"Mmmm," is her only response, but she complies as she returns to her previous spot under the covers and snuggles in closer.
"Don't fall asleep on me, Castle," she tells him as she backs into him, bending slightly, completing the spoon."
"Wouldn't think of it," he replies into her ear, nuzzling her ear lobe in the process.
"Good. My ego is damaged enough as it is for one night."
They are quiet now, both enjoying a moment that has long eluded them for years, and deep in thought about women they don't know and have never met. Finally, Castle is the first to speak up again.
"Do you believe him?"
"Who?" she asks.
"You know who," he responds. "Don Juan, Jennifer's old flame. And your ancient secret crush."
"That obvious?"
"That obvious. Did he ever know?"
"Oh yeah," she replies with a chuckle. "We talked about it back then. Sam was always an up-front kind of guy. Anyway, he always knew he was a magnet."
Castle has to laugh at that, and receives a pre-emptive elbow to the rib for his efforts.
"Ooof," he manages.
"Don't even say it," she warns amiably.
"So you bowed out gracefully," he finally gets out.
"You could say that," she says, nestling back into him once again.
"Baaa – ket", he wonders aloud, holding out the first syllable, his voice rising on the second, as he wraps his arms back around her waist.
"He and Jennifer were always on-again, off-again," she explains, snuggling closer. "Typical college stuff."
He nods his head in understanding, now drawing imaginary circles on the side of her hip which is buried into him.
"And you were . . . okay, I just am having a hard time imagining you as a substitute stand-by, Kate," he tells her, the unbelief clear in his voice.
"Not in the least," she gives him, turning to half face him for a second. "More of a shoulder to whine on."
"Hmmm," she hears him purr in her ear. Another minute passes before he speaks again, asking the same question.
"You never answered my original question," he begins. "Do you –"
"Yes, I believe him," she answers. "Rather, I believe what Jen told me he said."
"So, you think he can find out what is going on?" he asks.
"From what Jen said, he can be very . . . persuasive," Kate replies.
"And you're okay with that?" Castle asks incredulously, now rising to an elbow over her.
"I owe him, Castle," is her simple reply. "I owe him."
"How so?" he asks, now more curious than anything else. She, too, rises to an elbow then into a sitting position, which he matches. She pulls up the sheets to cover her naked breasts, and lays her head on his shoulder.
"Remember when we first started working together, all those years ago, and I finally told you about Mom? I told you that I couldn't chase her case anymore. I had gone too far down the rabbit hole?"
"Yes, I remember," he recalls, also remembering how he disobeyed her wishes by looking further into her mother's case during their first year together. He had almost derailed this thing of theirs before they had a chance to really begin.
"Just over a year before you came, Sam was my anchor," she admits. "Sam was the one who reached down into the hole and pulled me out."
She sees the confusion on his face and continues.
"I was spiraling out of control, and I was ready to do anything to get some answers, Rick. Anything to get justice. And justice became vengeance. I was ready to do anything. Anything. Anything that would lead to solving the case."
She sees his look of shock, and nods her head, reconfirming what he has just heard.
"Anything," she repeats yet again.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Saturday, December 18, 2007 – 8:44p.m. – At Kate Beckett's Apartment in New York
Detective Beckett sits on the sofa with her legs pulled up underneath her hips, staring at the snow falling outside her living room window. Christmas is in one week. She is dreading the day, just as she has dreaded the entire holiday season. Just as she has for the past eight or nine years. All the happiness, all the smiles . . . the families. It's just too much.
Thinking about family, she quickly considers calling her dad, but she and Jim Beckett are still a bit distant with one another. Whether it is due to his embarrassment over his alcoholism and her role in pulling him out of it, or whether it is due to her hesitation to re-engage with her father – neither of them really talk about it. But calling Dad is not an option tonight. So she takes another sip of the red wine she has poured for herself with the take-out pasta she brought home earlier.
Her mind is racing, as she glances down, once again, at the bruises on her knuckles, courtesy of the beating she gave the young punk earlier this afternoon. Perhaps he really didn't know more than he was telling. But Jimmy Raglan, the son of former detective John Raglan, was holding out on her. Just as his father had. His father has been either a slippery, sloppy man - or a dishonest one – take your pick. She had lost her vaunted control in the alley this afternoon. It's something that is occurring more often now.
The knock at the door startles her out of her reverie.
She gazes through the peephole and cannot contain the gasp that escapes her lips. She unlocks the door quickly and flings it open, staring face-to-face with a man she had never thought she would see again.
"Sam?"
"Beckster," the darkly tanned man replies as the two embrace. For Kate, this is a reminder of happier times, easier times. A reminder when the world seemed a little . . . brighter.
"Sam. What are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you too, Beckster," he smiles. "What kind of greeting is that?"
She has to smile at hearing his old nickname for her, and for a brief instant her mind takes her back to Stanford, to Jennifer, to Sam. She tightens her embrace on her old friend. Seconds later, she pulls away, pulling him inside.
"Come in, come in, for crying out loud. What a wonderful surprise."
"Perhaps," he tells her, and now she notices. He's different. Oh, he's still handsome, and charming. She's reminded of why she and Jennifer – and pretty much half the Stanford campus – were taken with him. She's also reminded that he was one of the few 'pretty men' she has met in her life who didn't flaunt it, didn't use it as an opportunity to bed every walking woman he encountered.
But there's something different about him. Okay, sure, it's been at least eight years since she has seen him last. But there is an edge to him. She has only been a police officer for a few years, but her radar is always accurate. And he doesn't wait for an invitation to sit. Instead, he is clearly in charge here, as he walks to her sofa and sits, patting the area next to him.
"Sit, Kate," he offers, now more officiously than before.
"This isn't a social visit, is it, Sam?"
"On the contrary, detective, this is entirely a social visit . . . of sorts," he replies, and she doesn't miss the – what is it, almost disdain – in the term 'detective'.
"I'm here to help, Beckster," he begins.
"Help? Help who?"
"You, of course," he replies affably, still smiling. It's a dangerous smile. She recognizes this smile.
"You're different," she admits, immediately regretting her choice of words, her admission.
"As are you," he offers in return. "We both are products of . . . circumstance."
"Excuse me?" she questions.
"I'm here because your dad called me," he begins, ignoring her question. He sees the anger flaring up on her face and smiles inwardly. Sure, she wouldn't like the notion of daddy calling in help.
'Oh yes, Kate, you are different,' he thinks to himself, very much liking the new Kate Beckett. He holds a hand up to stop her interruption, to quell her anger even if only temporarily.
"I don't have much time, detective," he continues. "I suspect you won't give me much of that. So let's do this the easy way. I will speak. Then you will speak. Then I will speak, and you will toss me out. But before the tossing, you will hear what I have to say."
He glances down at the evidence of her father's concerns, taking her hands inside his. The bruises on her hands are fresh. But they are new bruises on top of old bruises. He glances up into her eyes, seeing the anger, the hatred, the pain and sadness. He recognizes every one of those emotions from his own journey.
"I'm sorry about your mother, Kate," he begins, and before she can react, he drops the first bomb.
"Two months after you left, I learned the hard way exactly what you were going through."
He lets that sink in, watching the realization in her eyes when she recognizes what he is saying. Her hand immediately comes to her mouth, her eyes widening.
"Killed. Murdered. Just like your mother," he continues. His eyes are dark but clear, and there is that edge again. It's in his voice. It's in how he carries himself. Even how he sits.
"The police were . . ."
She notices the pause in his voice before he continues.
"Useless," he finally finishes. "Dismissed it as a random crime, probably some gangland violence," he spits the words out with disgust.
"You know the feeling, don't you, Kate?"
She merely nods her head in agreement, and opens her mouth to speak. He raises his hand yet again.
"My turn," he simply says. "Yours is coming. I found that – despite the stellar efforts of the San Francisco Police Department – no justice was found for my mother. I also found – months later – that a little persistence on my part uncovered things that . . . things that somehow eluded San Francisco's Finest."
Unconsciously, she is nodding her head at this also. She suspects a cover-up with her mother's case. She is certain of it. Nothing else explains to total, complete lack of progress, lack of evidence, lack of clues.
"I found," Sam continues, "that a little pressure applied in the right areas yielded considerable fruit. I found the murderer on my own. My journey, during that time however, was a very dark one. Some would say that I never completely left the darkness behind me," he smiles.
"What do you mean? And are you saying you found your mother's murderer?"
"Your second question is easier to answer," he nods. "Yes, I found mom's killer."
"What did you do?"
"I took action that – to this day – has established me, established those I consider my family – to be off limits to anyone with a smidgen of a brain."
His statement is delivered so easily, so matter-of-factly that it completely disarms Kate Beckett, something difficult to do to the fledgling detective.
"Sam –"
"You operate on one side of the law, Kate," he interrupts, knowing the war going on inside her head. "I operate on the opposite side. Our methods differ, and truth be told, our goals differ. But more often than not, I would dare say we end up with similar results. That's why I am here."
She stands, and begins pacing. She's not sure what she feels. Anger at Jim Beckett. Surprise and disappointment with Sam Carlos. Disgust at the NYPD for dropping her mother's case so easily.
"The darkness is beginning to consume you, Kate," Sam continues, now choosing to sit back in the comfortable couch. He will let her walk this out, pacing back and forth.
"I know this, because the darkness consumed me. I can recognize the signs. Your father was right. You do need help. But your father was wrong in thinking that anything short of solving your mother's murder will give you what you need. It's the wound that continues to reopen, seeping darkness into your life."
She turns and faces him, stunned at the clarity in which he understands her. Stunned at how a man she has not seen for almost a decade has so clearly pinpointed where she is in her life right now.
"I don't know what to do, Sam?" she finally admits, tears glistening her eyes. He sees the emotion, and she is surprised to see the wetness forming in his eyes as well.
"I know, Kate. I know," he tells her. "Because even though you are falling into darkness, you are not dark. You never were. It's not a comfortable place for you. Unlike me."
He stands now, and walks toward her, and pulls her back to the sofa where they both sit.
"You will never find her killer, Kate, because even though you may seem to cross the line occasionally," he begins, touching her bruised hands to emphasize his point, "you just as quickly fall back into line, consumed with guilt, which turns into frustration. Which pushes you across the line again, only to have you jump back yet again. This comical cycle continues on and on. Am I correct so far?"
'Yeah, he gets me,' she thinks to herself as she nods her head to him.
"You have two choices, Kate. And only two," he tells her, the smile and pretense now gone. She gets a glimpse of a stone gaze that – she will later learn – both sides of the law on the west coast fear and respect.
"Option one. Drop your foolish quest. You have the passion, the heart. But not the resolve. You lack the 'I will do anything necessary' ingredient. It will not end well for you."
He stands now, moving away from her, and grabs the half empty bottle of red wine on the coffee table and takes it with him to the small kitchen. He places it in the refrigerator, and returns to the living room.
"Option two. Give your quest to me." He sees the stunned look on her face, and holds his hand up one more time. "I have the resolve, and I have the resources. What your police force did not want to find, I will find. And it won't take me years, Kate. More like months."
Her mind is racing with questions. Option two is no option at all. Release her thirst for justice? Give it to someone else? Even an old friend? Not an option. But there is something about Sam, about how he talks, about what he says. There is a confidence. It's almost as if . . . almost as if he already knows something he isn't sharing. He begins answering her unasked questions.
"I'd start with your police captain," he says, still not smiling anymore. "If there is a police cover-up, and I suspect you believe there is, then the person or persons involved in such a cover-up would want you close, they would want you where they could keep an eye on you. They would call it protection, but it is anything but."
"There is no way that Roy Montgomery would –"
"And this, Kate, is why Option two is your only chance for justice. You lack the resolve to do what is necessary, to suspect what is necessary, to believe what is necessary."
He pulls her up off the sofa, and begins walking toward the door.
"You're . . . you're leaving?" she asks, and the pain in her voice is evident.
"I have a plane to catch," he says simply.
"At this hour?" she questions, glancing at her watch.
"Let me put it differently," he tells her, his smile returning. "I own a plane, and it is time for me to leave on that plane."
He laughs at the look she gives him.
"Different sides of the law, detective. Different sides of the ledger."
He opens the door, still holding one of her hands.
"Drop it, Beckster. Option one will give you frustration, but eventually you will be at peace with yourself. Because you don't belong down here in the darkness, down the rabbit hole. It's not who you are. It is who I am. Let it go. Get your life back. Be a good cop. There are not enough of those," he spits. He kisses her cheek, and is gone, closing the door behind him.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 9:51p.m. – At Richard Castle's Home in Sausalito
"My God, he was right about Roy," Castle whistles in surprise.
"He was right about a lot of things, Rick," Kate concurs. "But trust me, I owe Sam. So I trust him when he says he can discover things, uncover things. He has . . ."
"Resolve," Castle finishes the sentence for her.
"Sam saved me," she continues. "He did what no one else was able to do. He got me to – at least for a while – let it go. He got me to back off, get my bearings back. Get my dreams back. He showed me who he was, who he had become. He asked me if I was willing to go that far, fall that far down the rabbit hole to where there is no return."
"You said no."
"I said no."
They are quiet for a few moments, each in their own thoughts. Kate marvels at how she has left the police force, but not left the chaos. She has moved across the country, yet the darkness that Sam spoke so eloquently about all those years ago – murders, kidnappings, abuse – they all remain in place, in this new place.
Castle himself marvels at how this new quest of his, helping battered women, continues to uncover entirely unexpected – and often nefarious - activities.
Minutes later, they are drifting off to sleep. There is enough waiting for them for tomorrow. Suddenly, another thought hits him.
"Kate?"
"Mmmm," she mutters, as sleep is fast approaching.
"Do you think that Sam ever figured out who killed your mother? Do you think he ever figured out it was Bracken?"
Kate is silent for a few seconds, and for an instant, Castle thinks she is asleep. Then she answers.
"I think he figured that out a long time ago, Castle."
A/N: Not much happening in this chapter on the surface, but it is all necessary for where we are going, both for this story and beyond. Sam Carlos – and his history with Kate – will be important for her west coast life. No, that doesn't mean any unnecessary angst with Kate and Castle – just some filling in the blanks and interesting ideas that are swimming in my head.
Writing is coming a little slower for me these days, and my thanks to Perspex13 and GeekMom for some great new stories that have kept me afloat a few times in the past weeks. Check their stories out if you get a chance.