Kairos – Chapter 6
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.
.
Saturday Morning – April 27, 2013, 8:20 a.m., Richard Castle's Loft
.
The smell from the kitchen is intoxicating. She's been awake for two or three minutes, alone on the sofa where she and Richard Castle fell asleep early this morning after staggering in from the Old Haunt. Deciding that the fifteen or so steps down the hall to the bedroom were far too many, Castle had walked to the hall utility closet and grabbed two pillows and a blanket. He and Kate had proceeded to peel their clothing off, and literally fell onto the oversized sofa, cuddled, and drifted away.
So the smell of biscuits and the sound of sizzling bacon is close – less than thirty feet away. She slowly rises, throwing her feet across the sofa and onto the floor.
"You're up early. And you've been busy," she notes from the sofa, raising her nose, as if that action alone allows the aroma to reach her nostrils.
"I've been thinking," he tells her as he flips the bacon.
"Me too," she offers, rising to her feet.
She bends backward, stretching her back, lifting her arms over her head before traversing the space between them quickly, falling into his chest. He wraps his arms around her, as she quickly turns, spinning them and taking his place in front of the stove. She backs into him as she flips the bacon. He kisses her neck.
"I love you."
"I love you, too.
She leans her head back into the comfortable crook of his neck. He reaches around her, wrapping his hands around the front of her waist.
"What'cha thinking?" he asks. "You first."
"I miss her Castle. So much."
"I know you do, babe."
She turns, and opens the oven, taking out the biscuits. He moves to the refrigerator, and takes out a half gallon of orange juice, and pours them both a glass. He's already put the coffee on, and now he pours her a cup, and brings it to the table where his cup already sits. She's just placed the biscuits there, along with two plates of bacon and eggs. They sit in silence, and she takes one bite.
"I want to see my Mom again," she tells him.
"We're doing this?"
"We're doing this," she smiles weakly, then finds herself strengthened by the growing smile that graces his lips. "You're sure you okay with this, Rick?"
"Are you kidding? I get to use a time machine," he laughs. "Of course I'm okay with –"
"Not a time machine, Castle," she corrects. "And this is not game. It is far more dangerous than your television shows."
"Yeah," he comments. "I know. I know this is real. When do we start?"
"You do realize this may end up costing you a couple million dollars," she tells him.
"It won't be the first time I've written a substantial check for you, Detective Beckett," he reminds her. "And it definitely won't be the last," he chuckles as he glances at her empty ring finger.
She smiles, nodding her head and averting his eyes, as she remembers a certain six-figure check he wrote a few years ago – unasked – that ended in tragedy inside the police station. In truth, if they can go back in time, there really is so much that she would change. Different decisions she would make.
As if reading her mind, he interrupts her thoughts.
"It's a one-time trip, Kate," he reminds her. "We do this one time, for one thing only, and accept whatever happens."
She nods her head, now finding his gaze again. It is soft, and understanding.
"Let's do this," she repeats, as they dive into their breakfast with gusto.
.
Saturday Night – April 27, 2013, 7:22 p.m., at the Kronologix facility in South Brooklyn
"Thanks for meeting us tonight, Doctor," Castle offers in greeting as he and Kate Beckett walk through the front door of the warehouse facility.
"When I said we were good to go, I really didn't expect you to come out here tonight," he continues. "Monday morning would have been just –"
"It's no problem, really, Mr. Castle," Dr. Sandra Windholm counters. "I'm the chief executive officer of a research start-up looking to go public. There are no days off, believe me."
"Still, thank you," Kate remarks, as she removes her coat upon entering the facility. She is surprised at the number of workers here on a Saturday night, and can hear activity down the hallway. Dr. Windholm glances at her, smiling.
"No days off," Kate repeats," drawing an appreciative nod of the head from the doctor.
"Actually, I misspoke," the doctor replies quickly. "Sunday mornings – no work. I give everyone, including myself, the morning off."
"A religious scientist?" Castle wonders aloud.
"Let's just say a smart one, who understands how important those things happen to be for many of my people," she counters.
"I'm surprised," Castle wonders aloud. "I would have thought most scientists to be . . . doubters of faith-type things."
"Some are, some aren't," Windholm agrees. "Many of us choose, however, to believe that all of this – everything we see, smell, breathe, touch, taste – all of this is a result of a brilliant design, and not just a roll of the dice."
As they walk, Richard Castle hands a large manila envelope to Windholm.
"All executed, with a cashier's check," he tells her, now taking serious glances around the room at his surroundings as they walk. Seconds later, they are in the elevator, making a repeat trip seven floors below the street surface.
"I have to say, I'm not surprised that you two are back," Dr. Windholm tells them, her tone friendly and non-confrontational as they descend into the belly of the facility. "And believe me, I am more than pleased to welcome you into the family as an investor, Mr. Castle," the red-head continues.
"But I must ask . . . and please . . . humor me with one question, if you will," she asks.
"Quid pro quo, Doctor," Kate replies, just as affably. "We answer a question, you answer a question."
"Fair enough," the doctor replies, already sensing where their question will go. She caught their looks yesterday afternoon. She knows the question they have. They've probably done their research last night after leaving her facility. If she's honest with herself, she'd be disappointed if they did not.
"What is it that you want to see in the past?" Windholm asks. "Every investor, every interested party has that one thing in history that they just have to witness for themselves. That one event where the history books, the artist's renditions, the black and white photographs from two centuries ago just aren't enough. What is it for you, Mr. Castle?"
Fortunately, it is a question that Castle and Kate both have anticipated, and discussed at length last night at the Old Haunt. It only makes sense that the good doctor would ask such a question, given this is her business. Telling her the truth is absolutely not an option. Dr. Windholm has made it abundantly clear that travel is for 'observations purposes' only. No changes. No modifications. No fiddling around. If she knew what they are planning, she would veto the entire idea, two millions dollars be damned.
The work they do here, and the target benefit – it is a beautiful business model, actually. The idea of documentaries taking on 'real life', the notion that classroom instruction could take on a whole new visual representation, the concept of church sermons accompanied by 'real video'. Yeah, sending someone back to observe and document could turn many industries completely upside down.
Entertainment, Education, Religion. All could realize staggering benefits from the ability of a time traveler with a video camera.
In the end, Castle decided that it would be best to stay close to the truth. Make it about family. It turns out to be far easier than one would think. The death of one's parent – particularly when the parent/child relationship has been solid – is an unforgettable lifetime event. When the death occurs due to murder . . . well, the child ends up learning every nuance, every puzzle piece. As if learning the minute details could somehow bring them back.
The greater irony is that in this case, it is those 'minute details' that they are counting on to get Johanna Beckett back.
Johanna was killed on January 9, 1999. The letter from Joe Pulgatti had been post-marked December 23rd, 1998. Father-daughter conversations over the years confirmed and re-confirmed that Johanna received the letter on Christmas Eve. It was a topic around the Christmas Eve dinner table that evening. Kate had actually been there, on holiday break from college at Stanford. She had listened to her mother drone on about some mobster asking her to look into his case, and dismissed it as normal stuff for Johanna Beckett. The fact that Jim Beckett found nothing unusual about his wife's dinner discussion only confirmed this for Kate Beckett.
So, once they agreed that the letter reached Johanna on Christmas Eve, well, that gave them the date. Knowing that they have up to twenty hours to work with, they have decided to go back that to that particular morning. They will intercept the letter from the mailman. Johanna will never get the note.
"December 24, 1998," Castle replies to Dr. Windholm. The raised eyebrows and surprised countenance on the doctor are almost comical to the couple.
"It's personal," he tells her. "It's a day –"
"A night," Kate corrects him, playing her role as they discussed.
"Yes, you're right, of course," Castle agrees. "It's a night that is special for both of us, for different reasons. A night we both want captured on video," he tells the doctor, holding his iPhone up for emphasis.
"Christmas Eve, 1998," he continues. "Alexis and I began a long tradition of laser tag. She was only six years old. I had taught her to play earlier that year. Dinner that night was turkey and dressing, then lights-out laser tag, with the Christmas decorations the only lighting."
It is Castle at his best, weaving an imaginary tale, a fictional story. Only this time, he isn't writing – he is just telling the story out loud. His facial expressions, his smiles, his animated gestures, they sell the reality of the tale.
"Of all my memories of Alexis, that's the one memory that I don't have on video that I wish I did. I have so many memories of her recorded on audio tape, or video tape. Recitals, playground games, graduations, baptisms, first day of school. But that first laser tag tournament in our living room, my pumpkin's giggles . . . She's already graduated from high school. Some day she will be gone, probably in another city or state, grown and moved on, playing games with another man, making her own family. I want . . . I want this memory forever," he says softly.
It's a masterful performance.
"And I have to be there," Kate continues the tale. "I have to be the one to get inside and place the camera, because Castle cannot get in too close of proximity to . . . to . . ."
"To his real self," Dr. Windholm nods, understanding.
"So what will you do during this time, Mr. Castle?" the doctor asks. "Detective Beckett will be at your place. Where will you be?"
"He will be at my parent's place," Kate replies in Castle's place. Her story is the key, she knows. She has to sell it. It won't be difficult. Not at all.
"My mom . . . Mom was murdered on January 9, 1999. Just a couple of weeks after that Christmas Eve. I was home from college. I was at Stanford. But I came home for the holidays. And I was that college kid who knew everything. I was distant. It was a wonderful holiday, a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner after candlelight services. And Mom and Dad were hugging and kissing . . . and for once, I allowed them to pull me into their little reindeer games. I figured I had them for decades. They both were young. Mom was an attorney. That's where I was headed. She was supposed to live for a long, long time. That's what I thought. There would be many more Christmas Eves. So . . . I didn't bother to take any pictures. No one was video-taping. My last holiday with Mom. And I don't have a single picture. No snapshots. No videos. No audio recordings. Nothing. I . . . I just want to have that . . ."
Kate's words slur a bit as she can barely finish the story. As expected, the emotions – in her moist eyes and shaky voice – they are all too real. It's no act.
It's a bit stunning for Dr. Windholm, who is used to potential investors wanting to go back and see famous historical events. She finds the moment tugging even her hardened emotions. She simply nods her head in understanding, and ushers the duo toward the large cylinder container.
Castle reaches the cylinder a second before Kate, releasing her hand to take a final step to the large transport glass. Again, he places his hand on the surface, and once again he retracts it quickly.
"Still cold," he chuckles.
"You expected something different?" Kate kids, nervously.
Their banter has its intended effect, disarming Dr. Windholm, and alleviating any concerns she may have over their desire to return to the past for . . . shall we say, very personal reasons.
"Standard disclaimers, protecting my company in case anything goes wrong," Windholm tells the couple as she hands each of them a single piece of paper.
"Shortest disclaimer I've seen," Castle whistles, as he begins to read the document. It doesn't matter. He and Kate know the risks. Windholm has been more than up front with both of them, so the words like 'death' and 'termination of life' are no surprise to either of them. Nor are the statements in the document warning of 'legal repercussions' if either of them takes any action during their journey that materially changes the timeline.
"You're well aware of the risks," Dr. Windholm repeats for the couple. "Let me remind you – observation purposes only."
"Yes, I can see that," Castle nods, quickly signing his name and handing the document back to Windholm. Kate repeats the action, and seconds later, the couple is walking into the cylinder.
"Not yet, Mr. Castle," Windholm tells him, stopping both of them in their tracks. She waves them over to the computer keyboard.
"Policy," she tells them. "You must key in your own time-line, and desired coordinates. This ensures that we don't accidently send you to a different time or location than you wish."
"Makes sense," Kate nods. "We only need fifteen hours, right babe?"
"That's right," Castle nods. "Get there at nine in the morning, be out of there by midnight. You and I get to walk the streets, take in a few sights and then sneak in and get things prepared. That gives us time to get the recording devices out of the houses – mine and yours – and get back home . . . back here." He glances at the doctor.
"Fifteen hours is still okay, right?" he asks her.
"That is correct. Normally, travelers have no more than twenty hours," Dr. Windholm continues. "But you haven't asked for that much time. It sounds like you have thought this through, so fifteen hours will be enough time. I trust you are right. Because once set, you have that allotted time and not one second more."
"That's going to be more than enough," Castle responds. Yeah, they have thought this through, backwards and forwards. Anyway, neither he nor Kate want to risk staying back too long. No, they really don't know what 'too long' means, or why they have the trepidation. Perhaps it is just normal caution. He makes a face, taking the black bracelet and putting it on his left wrist.
"Heavier than I expected," he muses aloud.
"Yeah, it is," Kate agrees, placing the matching bracelet on her left wrist as well.
"Well, considering the fact that we are opening a wormhole, breaking ourselves down into computer digits and getting transmitted through a tiny opening . . . I guess it's not all that heavy after all," Castle chuckles, and Windholm recognizes the change in poise. She sees it all the time. Once a traveler steps inside the cylinder for that first time, feeling the cold heaviness of the bracelet, watching the cylinder close, as if swallowing them . . . well, they start to experience a bit of claustrophobia . . . and then fear.
Yeah, panic sets in – and everyone deals with it differently. Some use humor, like Castle. Some close their eyes and grow quiet. One investor – well, he could have been an investor. But a huge panic attack struck the young man down, and eliminated his desire to go back in time, and eliminated his desire to invest in the prospect. It happens sometimes.
"You will go back, one at a time," she tells them. Suddenly, a glass-like door slides from the top of the ceiling of the cylinder, cutting the geometric container in half. Castle and Kate quickly react, rushing toward each other too late, and now staring at each other through a completely transparent glass-like 'wall' that separates them. They place a hand on the material, trying to touch each other, and gain closeness.
"Please move back, at least two steps, both of you," Windholm tells them. She glances down at the coordinates that they have set for themselves.
9:00 in the morning, on December 24, 1998.
They will land just inside Central Park. It's generally safer than having two people appear out of thin air in the middle of an office building. That could be problematic. Another lesson learned from past experiences.
"Dr. Windholm," Castle asks suddenly. "I know it's kind of late to ask this, but . . . is this going to hurt?"
"Again . . . you're being torn down into digital data, Mr. Castle. What do you think?" Windholm replies honestly.
"Ten seconds, Detective Beckett," Windholm tells her quickly, starting the program. "Ladies first."
Suddenly, the lights dim significantly, pitching the room into semi-darkness. A glow appears about a foot above both Castle and Kate, and both instinctively look upward. Both step back, alarmed at what they see. Above Kate is a holographic image of her, perfect in every way to the naked eye. Similarly, above Castle, a holographic representation of him appears.
Castle's eyes grow larger, as he watches Kate close her eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. A few seconds later, they hear Windholm counting down.
Three.
Two.
A barely audible popping sound can be heard, as the holographic image of Kate collapses into the bracelet.
One.
"I love you!" both scream to the other, and then Kate's scream raises in pitch for a brief second. Her eyes grow large, her mouth open . . . and then nothing.
She's gone.
Castle watches a translucent powder leave an outline of Kate's body. It captures her wide eyes and open mouth perfectly, before it quickly disintegrates into a white dust, falling harmlessly to the surface floor.
"My God!" Castle exclaims, not hearing the identical countdown that the doctor has started for him. Seconds later, he feels a jolt unlike anything he has ever experienced. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound escapes. In its place, a translucent outline of his body hangs in the air for a second, before it, too, falls harmlessly to the ground as a white powder, like Kate.
"Happy travels," Dr. Windholm says softly, glancing at her watch to count off the twenty seconds of current time line that they will be gone. Her watch reads 19:47:19 in military time.
.
Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 9:00 a.m., Behind a park bench just inside Central Park
Richard Castle's open mouth takes in the snow flurries that pepper the air, watching his breath leave his mouth in the cold morning. His eyes immediately find those of his love, Kate Beckett, who stands five feet away from him, to his side. She is shivering in the cold as well.
"Holy Shit!" he exclaims, as he opens his arms rushing to embrace her. She falls into his arms, hugging him tightly. He places his chin atop her head and glances around at his surroundings. He notes the trees, he sees the people in the distance. They are roughly sixty yards into the park, and he can see the cars driving along 5th Avenue, running along the park.
He immediately notices the type of cars. Rather, the 'age' of the cars. The cars of 2012, 2013 are nowhere in sight. His eyes fall downward, catching a detached page from the New York Post blowing across the white snowy surface of the ground. He smiles. A newspaper blowing across the grass isn't a common occurrence in 2013. Not in the age of the internet.
He reaches down, grabbing it. He glances at the top, noting the date, before handing it to Kate.
December 23, 1998.
"Probably a paper from last night," he marvels, his eyes widening and now searching for the cars passing by once again. Kate takes in the date on the newspaper, as tears form in her eyes.
"We're here, Castle. We're here."
"No, Kate," he corrects her. "She's here."