A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 24
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 10:17 p.m. – At San Francisco General Hospital
Grayson Hamilton sits alone on the hospital table, her arms folded around her chest, rocking back and forth very slowly. Her eyes are glazed and red from crying. The drugs are starting to wear out of her system. The past month? That will take much longer. The emergency room is filled with forty-nine women – forty nine - who had long ago given up hope. Hope that they would be rescued. Hope that they would see their families again.
Hope that they would be granted the peace of death, escaping the hell that they had each fallen into.
Once Benny had given up the location, Jennifer had immediately gone into motion. The assault on the Castles Complex was over, successfully defended against by Mike Monroe's security force. The casualties were limited, with only Monroe and Dawn Harrison sustaining injuries, and both of their injuries were due to errant crossfire from the confused and retreating raiding party.
Rather than call the SFPD, Jennifer reminded the team that they – she specifically – wasn't really sure who could be trusted. Sure, Jennifer had a few she felt were above board – but now that they were this close to rescuing the women, she just couldn't take the chance.
The safer option had been to send a small detail made up of Jennifer, Kate Beckett, Colin Alexander and Marcus Duncan. The only addition to the detail was Channel 7 reporter Anna Roberts and her cameraman. The ABC-affiliate newswoman was a longtime friend of Jennifer's – one she was certain she could trust. Even so, she had the reporter and cameraman fly out to Castle's complex rather than directly to the island.
Yeah, complete trust was becoming harder and harder to come by.
The six had been flown onto the island via helicopter and dropped less than a mile away from the old barracks where the women were being held. Once in position, then Detective Blackard had made the call back to her precinct. This way, if people suddenly came pouring out of the barracks, then she would know. For certain.
Marcus almost felt sorry for the detective when he noticed her crestfallen face when people – indeed – began the exodus from the barracks. Jennifer quickly composed herself as she stood in the lights of the camera, her arm held high exposing her SFPD police badge as she identified herself as a San Francisco police officer. Marcus and Colin quickly rounded up any who tried to run. Others were frozen in place, paralyzed by the assault rifles both men carried.
Anna Roberts found it difficult to maintain a steady voice as she reported – no mean feat for a woman with her credentials and field experience. Perhaps it was seeing the mayor's chief of staff walking out with her hands raised in surrender that did it for the seasoned reporter. Or the very recognizable face of the President of a large bank from the finance district. Either way, it was a who's who of power and politics that made its way out of the building. And every face, every step was documented by Anna for inclusion in tonight's newscast.
With roughly eighteen people sitting on the ground in a tight circle, arms above their heads while Marcus and Colin kept their rifles trained on the circle, Kate and Jennifer had gone inside, both wary of the house of horrors that would greet them there. Finding the women now accomplished, they took to task freeing the women.
A little more than an hour later, they now realize that will prove to be a far heavier undertaking, as both women stand in the doorway, observing Grayson Hamilton. The woman is . . . well, catatonic really is the best word to describe her state. There is no imagining the brutality these women have suffered through – some for the past months.
"What do you think?" Jennifer whispers to Kate.
"I think we should have killed Benny," Kate replies in a hushed tone, her eyes never leaving the young woman on the table.
"Trust me, Kate," Jennifer tells her old friend as she suppresses an involuntary shudder. "Handing him over to Willie Crockett as we did was a sentence far worse than death."
Kate glances at her friend who this time chooses to be the one zoned in on the young woman on the table.
"You don't want to know," is all Jennifer will add before walking slowly towards Grayson, her police badge clearly in sight.
"Your mother is on her way here, Grayson," she tells the woman. No response. She shakes her head, wondering if Kate is right, and they should have killed Benny anyway.
"She should be here in the next ten, fifteen minutes," Kate adds as she comes alongside the still uncommunicative woman. Both are careful not to touch her. Dr. Peraza had made that recommendation to them regarding any of the women they were able to rescue.
"If at all possible, allow them to get out on their own without assistance unless they reach out to you," Samantha had told the rescue strike team. Her advice – it turns out – is once again sound. Something as simple as a touch, a gesture could easily be interpreted the wrong way by the former captives.
Jennifer chooses this moment to leave the room and begin checking on some of the other women. Kate, however, stays put, standing alongside the young woman who continues to stare blankly ahead. For Kate and Castle, it all started with this young woman. So here she stays.
Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 10:39 p.m. – At Donovan's upscale home in San Francisco
"Dammit all to hell," an angry Donovan hisses as he launches his third glass of bourbon across the room into the waiting, shattering embrace of the opposite wall. Tonight has been a total disaster, as he has watched the teeth of a long-built organization left blowing on fickle winds. He has just watched the newscast. Nineteen bodies recovered from Richard Castle's safe campus for battered women out in Sausalito. All brutally killed. Castle himself – sporting a cast on his broken arm – had claimed that these men attacked the campus and were killed in self-defense, protecting the residents of the campus. The surveillance video supports his claims. An entire strike force eliminated – permanently.
"What the hell do you have out there on your little playground, Mr. Castle," he asks out loud, talking to himself. Clearly both he and Benny underestimated the response capabilities of the writer and his staff
The writer, for crying out loud! There is nothing in Castle's bio or background to suggest that he either has this mindset or has the military contacts to pull something like that. The ringing phone interrupts his tantrum. Donovan glances at the caller ID, and frowns. He doesn't have time for this. Still, there is no valid explanation why he wouldn't take her call – tonight of all nights.
"Hello, Madame Mayor," he greets her.
"Councilman Adams," Mayor Sandra Clooney returns his formal greeting with a smile, before becoming more personal. "Barry, have you seen the news this evening?"
"I doubt there is anyone in the city who hasn't seen this tonight," he says affably, regaining his composure. "Just the best possible news. I assume you have more information than what the media is telling us?"
"Nothing that I can share at this time, I'm afraid, Barry," she replies. "Like you I am just thrilled that we finally have found them – and they were all alive Barry. All of them"
"That's what I heard," he smiles falsely into the phone. "Again, just the best possible news. Not only do you get the press off your back, but you get the happy ending we all wanted. Just a fantastic night."
"I know, Barry, I know," she agrees, her joy barely contained. "My God, Barry did you hear how many women in total were recovered?"
"The newscast said forty-nine," he says affably. It kills him to say the number. Forty-nine women, captured from California and Nevada, all gone
"I'm calling you tonight because I am pulling our leadership council together in the morning. Can you be at my office at ten?"
"Ten it is, Sandra," he tells her. "I trust this will be a . . . happier meeting than last week."
"Decidedly," she promises. "Thanks Barry, I will see you in the morning."
"Oh, and Sandra," he adds as an afterthought. "I'm sorry about Bartlett."
"As am I, councilman," she replies, her jovial tone disappearing instantly. "However, she made her bed."
"That's a horrible pun, mayor," he tells her.
"Yes it is, Barry," she agrees. "Yes it is."
They hang up, and the fake smile that has been plastered on Barry's face quickly evaporates, replaced with the angry frown he has worn for the past hour. Not hearing from Benny was bad enough, telling him that the assault on the campus had gone badly. But the newscast? All of them dead? Well, nineteen bodies dead, and he does the math. There was Benny and his crew of fifteen, plus the backup in the car. That makes twenty. So one person survived.
Survived and talked.
That person could only be Benny. Not one of his crew knew where the women were. That was by design. The fewer people who know, the more honest and truthful deniability that exists. That's his golden rule. If you don't want people to talk, don't let them know.
No, Benny was the only one who knew where the women were. The fact that the raid failed – and the women were rescued from the island within hours of each other is no coincidence. Benny talked. He will have to deal with Benny. Perhaps a call to Rodney will force Benny to the surface.
His mind now, however, returns to the more pressing issue. Sure, he got out of this unscathed – personally. His reputation has not been touched. In fact, the fact that the mayor's chief of staff was found out at the island actually makes him more attractive – from a trust factor – for the mayor.
"Ah Cynthia, you finally did something useful for me," he almost chuckles aloud.
The dismantlement of his little whorehouse on the island, his special place for special and powerful people, will cause a major stoppage of funds. With forty-nine women in his little stable, he has banked close to fifty million dollars in the past year. All for his war chest for his upcoming campaign fund for next year's elections.
His big brother – well, step-brother, God rest his soul – had taught him well, preparing him for the rigors of an election run. For years, the two brothers had looked forward to 'serving' their country together. Will had made the path to Senator, while younger brother Barry had opted for the congressional path.
"You, me, our children – we will be the Kennedy's of our generation," William Bracken had once said a few years ago. Barry had been born out of an affair that their father had enjoyed with one of his staff decades ago. The elder Bracken had sent the young woman away – a couple of hundred thousand dollars richer – to raise 'their' son on the west coast, far from his wife's prying eyes. Nine months later, the woman gave her maiden name of Adams to her newborn son, listing the father as unknown.
Years later, the elder Bracken orchestrated a meeting of his two sons, with Will just over five years older than his younger brother. The two brothers had hit it off well, aided and prodded along by talks of legacy from their father. The fact that Will had died late last year – under mysterious causes as far as Barry was concerned – only amplified his desire, his burning need to reach the halls of Congress.
"I've got more than enough," he says aloud, pouring himself another drink and sitting down on his large chair. "And now I have a worthy enemy, a worthy adversary as well. No coincidence that that you knew them well, brother," he says, glancing at the framed photograph of the two brothers on the coffee table.
"Is everything all right, Barry?" he hears from the doorway. His wife, Susan, leans against the door to his den. "I thought I heard something breaking in here."
"Bad day at the office, Susan," he says softly.
"I know dear, I know," she says, now entering the room and taking a seat next to hear husband. She is quiet for a few seconds, allowing him to think before she speaks again.
"We can always –"
"No, babe, we can't" he corrects her before she can finish. "It got blown all to hell tonight. Trying to put it back together is testing the universe. I think I have lost enough for one night."
She simply nods her head, and stands, straightening out her skirt.
"Then I am going to bed. I have an early morning."
"The drug awareness meeting?" he asks.
"Yep," she replies. "Don't be up late."
"I'll be there in a minute," he promises. She's a good wife. She understands the game, and plays it well. He could not have picked better.
His thoughts return to Richard Castle.
"Soon, Mr. Castle," he promises. "This is far from over."
A/N: We have an epilogue next chapter, and then we are finished with this particular tale. I think we can be sure that – as City Councilman Barry Adams, nee Donovan states, this tale is only beginning. I thought it would be interesting to bring William Bracken – or a version of him – to the west coast. It took three stories to get here, but that sets the stage for future stories in this AU.