Kairos – Chapter 7
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 9:04 a.m., In a taxi cab leaving Central Park
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The couple sits in the back seat of the fast-moving yellow cab, both with a strong sense of déjà vu. It's natural given that they are now some fourteen-plus years back in time. They have a plan, sure, but right now that plan has given way to simple awe.
They are back in 1998!
For Kate, the city is only vaguely familiar. In 1998, Kate Beckett was living at Stanford, already a couple of years into college, getting accustomed to a very different life, and a very different culture on the west coast – a very different world than New York City.
For Castle, however, the city is extremely familiar. It is as if he is re-living a not-unenjoyable time of his life. Alexis is five or six years old, Mother is younger, more energetic, less heartbroken. His relationship with ex-wife Meredith is starting to normalize, as the sting of divorce and infidelity is starting to wane. In fact, he and the still-aspiring actress are now delving into their 'deep-fried twinkie' phase, and he is on the cusp of his 'page-six' lifestyle. Not that he wants to go back to any of that . . . but for the year 1998? Well . . . it was leaps and bounds better than the previous few years - post-divorce - just figuring out single parenthood, still getting over finding his wife in bed with another man . . .
Castle sits rubbing his hands, his arms, glancing at his fingers – just making sure everything is still there.
"That felt . . ."
"Unpleasant," she finishes for him.
"And we have to do it again," he almost whimpers, drawing a smile from his companion. She reaches over to hold his hand.
"You big baby," she chuckles. "Where do we start?" she asks, moving on, her eyes bright and excited. "I know where I want to start. I want to –"
"First of all, our phones won't work here," he reminds her, as she reaches into her purse with her free hand. He knows that she wants to talk with her mother. Our numbers, our carriers . . . it's all different here."
She nods her head, remembering they had discussed this last night. What would work and what wouldn't work.
"Second – and we discussed this last night, too. You can't see her, babe," he tells her. "Not now. I've got a job to do with Johanna. You have a job to do at the post office. We stick to the plan. You won't see her here, babe. But if we are successful, then you will see her tomorrow. Of course, tomorrow actually means fifteen years from now when we return to our time-line, but –"
"Castle!" she hisses in a whispered voice. "I want to talk to Mom. I want to hear her voice. You don't understand –"
"I understand perfectly," He warns her quickly. "Here's what else I understand. I've written enough books – and you've read enough books – where the characters jumps the gun, goes off half-cocked doing that one thing that the reader is screaming for him or her not to do," he tells her. "'Don't open that door. Don't go to the window. Don't answer the phone . . .'
He squeezes her hand for support. He knows this isn't what she wants to hear. But they've already talked about this.
"You see it all the time. And that's what I am seeing now. Don't go to her. Don't call her. Stay with the game plan, and in less than fifteen hours – we are back home. And you are with your mother," he pleads with her.
"Castle . . . Rick . . . please," she asks, and just the hitch in her voice breaks his heart. He knows how exciting and wonderful and difficult this is for her. This is an answered prayer, an impossible dream. The Christmas present of all Christmas presents has just been placed in her lap, half-opened . . . and she is supposed to just sit there and ignore it?
Impossible, he knows.
He places his left hand in her right hand, and she tightens her grip immediately while drumming nervously on the door handle with her own left hand. They ride in silence for the next few minutes, both deeply lost in their own thoughts.
The cab finally pulls up to a stop at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. Truth be told, they could have walked here from the park – it would have been perhaps a twenty minute walk. But mentally, they are in a hurry. They need to put things in motion here quickly.
While people may recognize the author who is still coming into his own in 1998, no one knows a thirty-something year-old Kate in this timeline, so she walks into the hotel lobby, cash in hand - another piece of their plan developed last night at the Old Haunt. Not only do their cell phones not work here, but their 2013 debit or credit cards won't work here either. They can't pull money out of ATM machines. Not now, not in this timeline. So, cash it must be. Fortunately for them, Castle keeps a heavy stash on-hand in his wall safe at the loft. Taking thousands of dollars out from the ATM over the weekend back in their original timeline would have been problematic.
While she goes inside to get them a room, Castle stays outside, and goes across the covered, expansive driveway where patrons are loading and unloading from cars and cabs, to the gift store there. He purchases a New York Yankees baseball hat. He isn't filthy famous yet, but he is beginning to make a name for himself. He can't allow himself to be recognized, even though it is only a distant possibility. He puts the cap on, along with his sunglasses, and heads across the driveway to the lobby, catching the elevator up to the lobby level. Kate is already there, waiting for him, room key in hand.
Hand in hand, the walk back to the bank of elevators, and take the ride up to the twentieth floor. They remain quiet as she slips the key into the door, opening up to a small, quaint room.
"Home sweet home," he muses kiddingly.
"For one night," she agrees.
"Not even that long," he corrects her. "We just need a place to crash and lay low for a few hours or more, once we get this done. Before we go back."
Castle takes his coat off and tosses it on a chair. He walks to the bed, and sits on the edge of the mattress, picking up the room telephone there. He chuckles at the antiquated technology in his hand.
"Wow," he can only muster.
"Who are you calling?" she asks, glancing out the window at the view of Times Square hundreds of feet below.
"I am not calling anyone," he tells her, handing her the phone handset. "You are calling your mother," he tells her, and can only smile weakly at the wide-eyed expression she gives him.
Yeah, impossible. It's a bad idea. Everything is screaming at him not to do this. But he knows he will be fighting her on this for the next fourteen hours and twenty-one minutes, and that is not a prospect he is looking forward to.
"I know this is going to be killing you for the next . . . fourteen hours and twenty-odd minutes," he tells her, glancing at his watch. "Don't say anything, not a word to her. For now – just be satisfied with hearing her voice. Nothing more," he tells her. "Are we good?"
She nods her head excitedly, thankful that he understands.
"I'm sure you know her old work phone number by heart," he tells her.
She does, indeed. The phone number for her mother's firm is burned deep into the recesses of her memory. Thankfully, 1998 was before the absolute explosion and proliferation of the culture of smart cell phones in the hands of everyone. Sure the technology existed. But not to the point that people no longer knew the phone numbers of those who they called most frequently.
She dials the digits with shaking fingers, and he grabs her other hand for support. Seconds later, she hears the phone ringing on the other end.
"Oh God, Oh God, Castle," she whispers.
"Hello, this is Johanna Beckett," she hears on the other end. Her hand pulls away from Castle, quickly rushing to her mouth, covering her lips, muffling the sobbing sound that threatens to leak between her fingers. She can't say a word.
"Hello? Who's calling please? Hello?" the voice asks again before Kate takes a quick step toward the nightstand and slams the phone down back into its cradle. She stands there for a moment, tears streaming down her face, alternately laughing out loud in unbridled joy and crying in anguish. It's a moment Castle will take to his grave, he knows.
A minute later, a much more composed Kate Beckett stares down at the man who still sits on the edge of the mattress next to the nightstand. He is all business now.
"Get it out of your system?" he asks, no emotion in his voice.
"Not really," she tells him, honestly.
"Too bad," he tells her coldly. They have zero time to waste. He glances at his watch. "In sixteen days, your mother is going to be murdered. Brutally."
She nods her head in agreement, her thoughts now crystalizing toward the task at hand.
"So . . . are you ready or not?" he finally asks. "We have got a lot of work to do, and even though we have over fourteen hours left here, our window of opportunity is much shorter – and it's closing as we sit here. We don't have much time."
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Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 11:47 a.m., Outside The Beckett Law Firm, P.L.L.C. in Queens
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Richard Castle sits in a large chair in the semi-dark of the small, two-story building in Queens. It's not what he expected from an attorney, but then again, he has to remind himself – Johanna was a civil attorney. She wasn't a high-priced Manhattan lawyer, taking large, high profile cases for the most part. She was one of the 'lawyers for the people', and her surroundings reflect as such.
His disguise is holding, and he can only hope that no one from Johanna's small firm comes down asking any questions. Her team, her offices, they are upstairs on the second floor. Here downstairs, there is only a single CPA in an office on the left side of the building, and a small tax attorney on the right side. So it is easy for Castle to play the role of a customer waiting for either of the downstairs businesses.
He's been waiting for roughly fifty minutes now before he is rewarded with his quarry. The lonely mail man – woman in this case – steps inside from cold outside, shaking the new-fallen snow off her coat. Castle has seen her coming up the short deck of steps through the door window, and immediately falls into his role. He waits until the postal worker delivers the day's mail to the CPA office and the tax attorney office. As the she approaches the elevator on the wall directly across from the door, Castle intentionally stumbles into her, knocking the bundle of envelopes out of her hands and across the floor.
"Oh gosh, I am so sorry, so sorry," he quickly tells them woman, scrambling to his feet far more quickly than she can. He rushes to pick up the envelopes, scanning the sending-party information with his eyes as he does. Fortunately, as planned, he has hit the delivery person hard enough for her to struggle a bit to get back to her feet. The envelope from the prison is the fifth envelope he picks up. He keeps it in his hand, as he gathers others quickly. Turning his back to the woman, he pockets the letter in his inner coat pocket, and pulls the rest of the letters together. He then pretends to lose control of the letters, tossing them into the air with a cry of alarm.
"Oh crap," he shouts," completing his klutz routine. He quickly bends down on a knee to pick the letters up again – a second time. By this time, the woman has found her bearings again. Castle quickly comes alongside her, handing her the letters, apologizing profusely. It could not have worked better. He gives the heavens a silent but heartfelt thanks as he hands her the remaining letters and packages.
"I am so sorry," he says, continuing his ruse. "I am so damn clumsy sometimes. That's what everyone tells me. I'm so sorry, I hurt you, didn't I?" he half asks the woman, now aggressively frisking her, checking her for any injuries. The ruse works, as the postal worker wants nothing to do with the large man who has already knocked her to the ground once and seems entirely capable of having another 'accident' any second now.
She backs away, waving him off furiously.
"I'm good, I'm good," she tells him. "Let me be on my way. Thanks for picking my stuff up. I really do appreciate it."
"Are you sure," he asks, moving to close the distance between them again as she tries to get on the elevator, whose doors have now opened. "Here," he says, extending his hand. "Let me carry these –"
"No!" she replies a bit too loudly, then repeats more softly. "No, thank you, sir. I appreciate it." She steps backward into the elevator, praying that the large oaf doesn't follow her, and relieved when the doors close, leaving her alone in the elevator.
Castle stands, staring at the closed elevator door, for a few seconds before breaking into a happy dance, tapping his chest where the letter is safely tucked away in his jacket pocket. Quickly he retrieves the letter from his pocket, ripping the envelope open. He's operating with a sense of urgency as one element of the unknown has just hit him, despite all of their planning.
"She's an attorney," he says out loud quickly, his hands fumbling for real now with the letter, trying to open it. "She might get more than one letter from a prisoner."
He scans the letter, and closes his eyes, whispering a thank you to the heavens, as he exhales, seeing the signature at the bottom.
Joe Pulgatti.
He reads the first paragraph, and smiles, satisfied that he has right letter, then pockets it. He quickly moves to the doorway, exits the building and makes his way down four blocks in the cold before attempting to hail a cab.
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Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 1:01 p.m., Outside the Queens Village Station Post Office
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Kate Beckett stares at the letter in her hands one more time. She re-reads it for the fourth time now in the past five minutes – just to make sure the tone is right. She and Castle have just left the Central Library on Merrick and made their way – by cab – here to Jamaica Avenue.
They had met at the library, as planned, after he had done his part. The plan was for her to get to the library by 11 a.m., and just wait. They weren't sure how long it would take for the mail to be delivered to her mother's firm. So it had been a waiting game – and fortunately for a very fidgety Kate Beckett – a short wait. They have allocated fifteen hours here in the timeline – wanting to get to Johanna's office before ten o'clock, knowing that the mail could come anytime between ten in the morning and probably four o'clock in the afternoon. They had silently prayed for a morning delivery. Anything in the afternoon would work, of course. But one of those rare, unexpected night-time deliveries due to whatever mishap could occur in New York City . . . well, that pushes them toward their witching hour. Chariot turning back into pumpkins, driver into a goose, guards into mice.
"Fifteen hours and not one second more," comes the reminder in her head from Dr. Windholm. She idly wonders if they shouldn't have given themselves more time, but remembers Castle's caution. The longer they stay in the past, the more likely something could go wrong.
And with them, something going wrong is par for the course.
The relief on her face – along with the smile – when he walked through the library doors at 12:40 was all he needed to see. He had nodded his head, letter in hand, waving it at her as he approached.
So here they sit now, in the cab – meter running – outside the post office.
Now, it's her turn.
Kate will send the reply from Johanna Beckett back to Joe Pulgatti – indicating in a pleasant tone, but in no uncertain terms – that she is not taking the case. The best way to do this, without potentially angering a known Mafiosi? A hiatus of sorts.
She glances again at the note, complete with a well-forged letterhead that Kate remembers all too well. The company logo – a butterfly – signifying new beginnings adorns the top of the letter, with the words 'The Beckett Law Firm, P.L.L.C.' underneath. It was easy enough to re-create on one of the library computers.
Underneath that heading are the words, 'From the cocoon of Johanna Beckett'. Kate always liked that touch from her mother. Beneath that is the body of the letter that Kate has hand-written. She remembers enough of her mother's very plain handwriting to mimic it, all these years later.
Except it isn't really 'all these years later'. Her mother is alive. She heard her voice.
She begins reading, one last time, out loud to herself.
Mr. Pulgatti,
I received your note, and am sorry to inform you that I will not be looking into your case. Pressing personal matters have arisen that will take me out of state for the foreseeable future. Please understand also - my firm has more of a focus on civil cases, and not criminal appeals. Another firm will be your best bet.
She nods her head – again, for the fourth time in the past few minutes – finally comfortable with the letter in its entirety.
"Its fine, Kate," Castle tells her gently.
He knows this will work. It has to work. They can't leave any wiggle room for Pulgatti to reach back out to Johanna, asking for reconsideration. If he does, and she responds, then all of this is for naught.
"He will get the message with this note, believe me," Castle encourages her. He glances at his watch. It is now 1:05 p.m.
"We have ten hours and fifty five minutes left," he reminds her. "Let's get this done, get a bite to eat, and back to the hotel so we can relax before we go back to the park."
She signs her mother's name with a flourish, and places the letter inside the envelope.
"Wait here," she tells him, and opens the door to the cab and walks inside the post office. She'll need to buy a stamp and mail it there. It's important – for their plan – for the letter to be post-marked by a post office here in Queens, where her mother's firm is located. That way when Pulgatti receives the letter, it will be post-marked in Queens, where Johanna's firm is located.
Fifteen minutes later, she walks out of the building, to a waiting Castle sitting in the cab. She slides in, shaking her head.
"Wow, I forgot exactly how inefficient the post office was back in –"
She catches herself, offering the cabbie a quick glance. He returns her look with a confused stare of his own, as he is not exactly sure how this strange woman was going to complete that sentence. All he knows is that – despite their best efforts – they seem a bit odd. Their clothes, for one, and also just a few little things he has caught here and there that they have said.
They remain silent for the remainder of the ride, whispering and giggling amongst themselves. It works, putting the cabbie at ease. Just another couple, probably getting away for some time away from their spouses. Happily married couples don't act like this.
Half an hour later – after a massive traffic jaunt – they arrive at the restaurant just a few blocks from the hotel in Times Square. It's an Italian place, one that will eventually become one of Castle's favorites.
"You're sure you won't show up here," she cautions as they walk inside. She, of course, refers to the 1998 version of Richard Castle. If this is a favorite of his, then they can't risk him coming here this afternoon, of all days.
"No worries," he replies calmly. "I remember Christmas Eve from 1998 very well. Alexis and I are – as of this very moment – tucked safely away inside the loft, making Christmas pancakes," he grins fondly. It's a good memory. And tonight will be their inaugural laser tag tournament. All of that was true, the story that he told Dr. Windholm.
"There's something we have to do, however," he tells her, as they walk in and are shown to a table in the back. He points to the walls of the establishment, and that's when she notices all of the writings on the wall.
"Names," she realizes out loud.
"Virtually every customer who comes here leaves their John Hancock," he replies with a smile. "Memories for a future visit," he continues, picking up the felt pen that sits in the middle of their table, and reaching over to the wall next to the table. He writes their names.
Castle and his Beckett.
He encloses the four words inside a heart, and adds today's date, smiling as he views his handiwork, putting the marker back down. He reaches across the table as he sits, taking her hands in his.
Their quiet is broken a minute later, as Kate glances out of the window adjacent to their table.
"Do you really think we did it, babe?" she asks.
"Oh yeah," he replies. "I have no doubt. We intercepted the letter from Pulgatti, and sent a reply from Johanna's office. She's out of state for an undisclosed amount of time on a personal case. She isn't expected back anytime soon. And she has no interest in the case anyway. Not her normal gig."
"You think he will buy it?" Kate asks.
"Absolutely," he tells her. "Because he has no reason not to. He doesn't know Johanna from the man in the moon. He will find someone else. Or he won't."
"But . . . we know he is innocent," she argues, as she had last night.
They both know that the man is in jail, wrongfully accused. Joe Pulgatti was a Mafia enforcer, framed for the death of an undercover cop, Bob Armen. Armen had been looking into the Mafia when he ran afoul of dirty cops, led by John Raglan. As far as the public knows, the undercover cop was discovered, and murdered as part of a Mafia hit. Far from the truth, it was an attempted abduction gone awry, as Raglan and his crew of dirty cops were kidnapping members of the Mafia families – and Armen was considered part of one of the families.
"Kate, we went through this last night," he tells her, once again. "Pulgatti has been wrongly accused. He is innocent of that murder. But he is far from innocent Kate. Wrongly accused does not mean innocent. He has blood on his hands for other many other crimes, and you and I both know that."
She nods her head. Yeah, they went back and forth on this last night.
"Besides," he continues, "if I am choosing between Joe Pulgatti walking free and your mother staying alive . . . well, like I said last night . . . that's no choice at all.
They make the lunch a long one, taking their time, enjoying each other's company, ordering at a snail's pace, and eating even more slowly. They now have hours to kill, and are in no hurry to leave the quaint spot.
Castle doesn't know what Kate is thinking right now, although he has his suspicions. For his part, he knows they have succeeded. He knows this will work. He also knows that making this change has some risks. Risks for him. Risks for them. This is one tiny change, yeah, but it is a huge fork-in-the-road for Kate that she will be avoiding. The whole attorney-to-cop career conversion that Kate went through in their timeline . . . will it still happen? What will that mean? He recalls the words of Dr. Windholm, who promised that they would still have their same memories, their same goals and desires. So he is assuming they will still know each other. They will still love each other. But what else will have changed because of this.
Her words snap him out of his deep thoughts.
"You in there, Castle?" she smiles.
"I'm here, babe," he tells her, returning the smile. "Just deep in thought."
"I can tell," she replies. "Anything you want to share?"
"Not yet," he tells her. "Just musings of a writer," he lies. He doesn't need to add anything negative to the mood right now, which is decidedly upbeat with the woman he loves. He's doing this all for her, after all. He knows that nothing is more important to her than her mother . . . than losing her mother.
"Promise me something," she asks him, reaching across the table.
"Anything."
"Let's come back here," she tells him. "If this really works . . . if it all works out the way we hope . . . this place will be the most special place in the entire city for me, Castle. It will be where we celebrated getting my mom back."
She raises a wine glass to the air, and he smiles, clinking his glass to hers in a toast.
"To Johanna," he tells her.
"To family," she replies, smiling.
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Hours later, still Thursday Afternoon – December 24, 1998, 11:56 a.m., Back in Central Park
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"I just thought of something, Castle," Kate exclaims, eyes widening in fear as she gazes at their surroundings here in the dark inside the park. The nearest lamp post is about fifty yards away. If this crazy technology works, they will be zapped back to their timeline any minute now. Zapped being the operative word.
"How exactly are we going to get back again?" she asks. "I mean, the way I understand it, the cylinder back at Kronologix contains the wormhole. But it isn't here. It isn't now. So without it, how do we –"
"Not quite," he interrupts, glancing at his watch. "Any minute now, by the way," he tells her excitedly before answering her question.
"Remember, the bracelet – this marker or whatever it is – it's the magic thing-a-ma-job," he reminds her. It's the bracelet that tears us down. But remember, in our timeline, less than twenty seconds have passed. So in our reality, the wormhole is still open. It never closed. Only seconds have passed. The bracelet is programmed, and knows when to return us, before the wormhole closes."
"And you know all of this because . . .?" she asks.
"I don't know anything," he reminds her. "But you know me. I love a good science fiction story. And what the doctor told us just seems to make sense to my admittedly often-jumbled mind."
Suddenly he hears a slight popping noise. Kate has heard it also. She's about to say something, when a sharp, indescribable pain jolts her body. Her eyes freeze as she opens her mouth. A sharp scream leaves her lips before she vanishes into thin air, leaving a white residue form of her body in place. As it begins to dissipate in the wind with the snow, Castle himself screams in pain. Two seconds later, he, too is gone.
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Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 7:47 p.m., At the Kronologix Facility in South Brooklyn
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The screaming stops as Dr. Sandra Windholm watches the couple on the floor of the transport cylinder. She smiles as she watches two looks of pure joy paint their faces, as they fall into a tight embrace, still on their knees.
"We're back!" Castle exclaims, immediately recognizing his surroundings in the transport room at Kronologix.
"It worked, Castle! It really worked," Kate cries, holding onto his face with both hands. "I can't believe it."
"Believe it, "Dr. Windholm tells them, opening the cylinder and stepping inside. She helps them both to their feet, and notices the wincing on Castle's face. She makes a mental note, as she catches his eyes and the subtle shaking of his head.
At the same time, Kate quickly clutches her chest – just for a second – and the sensation is gone just as quickly.
"Is everything okay, Miss Beckett?" the doctor asks. She has noticed Kate clutching her chest. She has trained herself to look for these little nuances upon a traveler's return.
Castle glances at the doctor quickly. He has noticed something, himself. She referred to Kate as 'Miss Becket'. Virtually every other time, she has referred to Kate as 'Detective'. He doesn't have time to consider it further.
"Fine, fine," Kate tells her, glancing at Castle. They're back. They have made it. And now, more than anything else, Kate wants definitive proof that their trip, their efforts . . . and Castle's two million dollars have not been wasted, in vain.
"We should get going, Castle," she tells him.
"Did you see what you wanted to see?" Dr. Windholm asks Castle, now wondering what the real intent of their trip was. Kate Beckett seems in a hurry all of the sudden, very unlike pretty much every other traveler who has been sent back in time. Normally, travelers are bursting at the seams to discuss what they have seen and experienced. Kate Beckett, however, apparently wants to put as much distance between herself and this place as possible. Then again, on the other hand, she wonders why would Kate Beckett be here in the first place?
"Yes, we did," a much more relaxed Richard Castle replies. "Just glad to be back. You know, for a second there as we were waiting, I began to wonder if we really could come back."
"A normal concern, Mr. Castle," the red-head tells him. "We've almost completely perfected this. I would not have sent you back had I any real concerns."
"You say 'almost'," he wonders aloud. "That's a little concerning in itself."
"No form of transportation is one hundred percent foolproof, Mr. Castle," she cautions. "Airplanes crash, cars collide or break down, trains derail. Nothing is foolproof – either through human or mechanical failure. Yet we depend upon those modes of travel every day. This will be no different."
Although he sees the truth in her words, Richard Castle also gets the feeling he is listening to a practiced but still a work-in-progress speech, part of a presentation, the answer to anticipated questions that will be asked during the IPO phase. And that's not even considering the government oversight that undoubtedly will rear its head in the very near future.
He simply nods his head in understanding – if not total agreement. Regardless, they have made it back. And now it is time to get out of here and see if there has been any fruit to their labor.
"Thank you, Dr. Windholm," he tells her. "Well worth my investment. And I will look forward to future discussions."
The doctor smiles, pleased at this development. Future investments are always potential realities. It was no surprise to her that Richard Castle, of all people, would want to go back into the past. Knowing his background, it makes sense. Now, knowing that he had the funds for such an endeavor? Yeah, that was a bit surprising, yes, but she is not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Besides, knowing that Mr. Richard Castle may be one who can be tapped for further funding is a welcome bonus this evening.
"That's good to hear, Mr. Castle," she replies.
The trio says their goodbyes, and Castle and Kate are – minutes later – in a cab headed back to the city. Castle glances over at his companion, who now has tears streaming down her face as she stares down at her iPhone. He glances down, and smiles as he sees what she is reading. She has googled 'Johanna Beckett attorney'. The results returned have reduced the detective to tears. She struggles to contain sobs of joy.
Castle sees a picture of Johanna – now almost twenty years older than Kate remembers her – with slightly graying hair. Kate is reading an article about her mother. Johanna is still an attorney, although "The Beckett Law Firm" is considerably larger now, and taking on more pro-bono cases. The article refers to a husband – James Beckett – who is a professor at Columbia University, teaching law. It brings a smile to Kate's face, but a frown to Castle's.
"He's changed careers," Castle thinks to himself, now suddenly concerned about what other changes they may have caused with their simple intervention. He glances at Kate, realizing that she doesn't see it yet. Oh, she sees that her father is now a professor, but the magnitude of what this could possibly mean has yet to hit her. For now, she is too caught up – understandably – in the fact that she has her mother back.
She closes the browser on her phone, and dials a phone number from memory. Their old home phone number. It's a chance . . .
"Hello?" a female voice answers.
"Mom?" Kate offers weakly, grasping Castle's free hands for support.
"Katie!" Johanna Beckett exclaims. "What a pleasant surprise. How's my favorite daughter," she chuckles.
"Your only daughter is doing great, Mom," Kate replies happily, unable to contain her tears of joy. "Just good to . . . it's good to hear your voice, Mom," she manages, struggling to keep her voice from breaking.
"Well, Kendall would take exception to that, darling," Johanna laughs.
"Kendall?" Kate questions, losing the battle to keep the surprise out of her voice.
"Yes, Kendall, your sister," Johanna smiles. "Come on Kate, I know she's a geeky middle schooler now – but she's not out of mind," she continues, laughing.
"Right, right, I'm just pulling your leg, Mom," Kate manages, fresh tears streaming down her face.
She has a baby sister!
"How's life at the office, dear?" her mother asks. "And when are we going to see you again. It's been a couple of months now since you last visited."
"Tonight," Kate answers quickly, suddenly wondering how close she and her parents are – or are not – in this new, revised timeline.
"Oh, that's wonderful," Johanna tells her. "I have meatloaf left over from dinner. Jim will be thrilled to see you, too."
"I can't wait, Mom," Kate replies, happily.
"You do remember where we live, I assume," Johanna laughs. "Since you don't visit all that much and seem to have forgotten all about your sister."
Kate laughs, playing along, but suddenly feeling pangs of disappointment in herself. She doesn't visit all that much? Her mom has never been killed now, yet somehow she has taken her living parents – her mom – for granted? Living in the same city?
"Okay Mom, refresh my memory again," Kate says, offering a false chuckle that she doesn't feel. At all.
"Katie Beckett, we've only lived in this house for thirty-five years!" Johanna replies, her voice rising in laughter.
"I know, Mom," Kate replies, thankfully. "I'm just joshing with you. I will see you soon." She regrets using the term immediately, as she feels Castle momentarily tense up. It's almost imperceptible. Almost, but she catches it. She reaches over and squeezes his hand.
"That's wonderful, Katie," her mother exclaims, barely able to contain her happiness. "Your father and I look forward to seeing our little prodigal."
"Oh Mom" Kate concludes in a low voice that is now breaking. "I love you so much."
Johanna Beckett is about to reply, but she is listening to dead air now. She shakes her head in bewilderment, then excitedly heads to the kitchen to begin warming dinner back up.
Back in the moving cab, Kate hangs up, her hands shaking and glances at Castle, who is smiling. Kate lets out a squeal, stomping her feet on the cab floor quickly.
"Who is Kendall?" he asks in a low whispered tone.
"Apparently, I have a sister," Kate beams, whispering in return. She notes the lack of shared happiness on Castle's face.
"What is it Rick?" she asks. "What's wrong?"
"Your father is no longer in law, but he's a professor. You have a sister," he replies. "What else is different now?" he asks aloud, a slight bit of alarm in his voice as he glances up to the front seat at the cab driver, who seems disinterested to the conversation occurring behind him.
"Well, evidently, this 'me' isn't all that close to her parents," she notes sadly. "A problem I plan on correcting immediately."
The cab ride to the 12th Precinct is quicker now during the evening, and quiet. Castle has grown detached, concern etches his features. Kate is oblivious to this, however. Her entire focus is on the family that has been returned to her . . . with a sister to boot.
Soon an excited Kate Beckett exits the cab, rushing into the precinct. She wants to get to her computer and find out more. And she wants to call her mother – not from a cab with ears – but from one of the safe conference rooms. From there, a quick trip to the house – after she verifies where they live. But wait, she's already verified that they still live in the same house, per her mother's words. The house Jim Beckett gave up in their old timeline, after Johanna's death.
"Don't overthink things, Kate," she tells herself.
The duo walk into the precinct, and Kate heads straight for the elevator, feeling happier than she has in almost two decades.
"Hey, where do you think you're going?" a voice calls out to her.
"Hey Sarge," Kate replies happily, not really hearing the question, nor turning her head so he can get a good look at her. Castle, however, stops in his tracks, as he immediately recognizes what is happening.
"We're just heading upstairs for a bit," Kate tells him as she continues toward the elevator.
"I don't think so," the sergeant tells her, as he eyes the couple warily. A couple of uniformed officers step forward as he speaks, blocking their path.
"Guys? What's going on?" Kate asks, now fearing a sudden pang of fear in her chest. It's almost like these guys don't know her. Or Castle.
"You tell me, sister," one of the uniformed officers beckons. "Civilians aren't allowed past this point without authorization."
"Civilians?" Kate bellows, then catches herself, her eyes widening. It hits her hard, and Castle is there to grab ahold of her.
"Oh! Miss Beckett," one of the cops exclaims. "I'm so sorry. I . . . Sarge . . . its Miss Beckett,"
"Beckett?" the sergeant asks aloud, peering atop his bifocals, now getting a better look.
"Oh, I'm sorry ma'am," he mutters, and there is something in his voice that Castle cannot place. It's nothing good though. Kate, however, has frozen in place now.
"Castle, I'm not a cop here anymore!" she whispers to him with hushed realization.
"That's what Mom meant when she asked how things were 'at the office'", she realizes as he begins to drag her away out of the precinct before things escalate. Kates mind is racing now, as she realizes that Johanna didn't ask about things 'at the station' or 'at the precinct'. There is a new time continuum in effect now. Things are very different. She hates when Castle is right like this.
Castle makes a few clumsy remarks about being sorry and quickly exits the precinct, Kate in tow, thankfully not taking on any further flak from the officers there. They reach the street before he lets her go. She shakes herself off, and glances at Castle who is now glancing down at his phone, clearing busy.
"What are you doing?" she asks, her eyes now showing the fear that is rising in the back of her throat and threatening to choke her breath away. He fights the same emotion as he swipes his finger across the face of his iPhone.
"Googling myself," he tells her. "I suggest you do the same. We need to find out what else is different now."
He frowns, and glances her way. The excitement both felt less than an hour ago has now been replaced with cautious anticipation, which borders on dread.
He hails a cab for her, and as she slides in, he closes the door without her.
"You're not coming with me?" she asks, surprised.
"No. You need to go to your parents. And while you're on the way, google yourself and see where you live. It's highly possible you don't live with me. More than that – you're not a cop. It's possible you have never even met me in this timeline. We're lucky that we went back together, and still even know each other now," he tells her in rapid, whispered tones.
"Go see your mother," he finishes. "Then call me."
He bangs the top of the cab roof, telling the cabbie to take off. Suddenly the vehicles launches itself away from the curb. He watches the retreating and very concerned face of Kate Beckett staring back at him through the rear window until it is out of sight.
He glances upwards at the heavens, saying a silent prayer that really has no words or thoughts. It's just a prayer of pure fear and dread. He has no idea what he is walking into with this.
He takes a couple of deep breaths, and then hails a cab for himself. Sliding in, he offers the cab driver an address.
"595 Broome Street," he says quickly, watching the cabbie pull punch in digits on the meter. Soon he is in motion, glancing out the window, the fear now clutching hard at his chest . . . and an unwelcome and unfamiliar pain now aching in his left hip.