Kairos – Chapter 24
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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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Monday Evening – April 29, 2013, 10:47 p.m., at Kate Beckett (Bracken's) apartment in New York
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Kate Beckett . . . Bracken sits in the comfortable, plush living room, her eyes fixated on the big-screen, sixty-five inch television built into the massive stone wall adjacent to the fireplace. Cassandra sits next to her. Both women have their feet propped up on the large ottoman in front of them. Both have been silent – except for the commercial breaks – during the interview with Richard Castle.
Madison is asleep in Kate's lap, breathing easily, occasionally hugging her mother tightly. Kate watches the young girl's chest expand up, then down – repeating the motion. Such a simple motion captivates her. She can do this for hours, it seems. Her hand idly brushes the little girl's bangs as she glances up at the television, and then back down to her daughter, once she confirms they are still on commercial break.
Her husband, Senator Bracken, is still out of town – back in Washington, D.C., called back to the nation's capital by none less than the President himself. He has told her he has no idea what the meeting is about, although she has her doubts. He is far too connected – she has learned this much – to have no idea what the chief executive wants to discuss.
Fortunately Kate – in this timeline – is an avid Richard Castle reader, and so staying up to watch this interview is entirely within her character, in the mind of Cassandra. The live-in nanny doesn't give a second thought to Kate being interested . . . no, make that fascinated by the man on the television screen. She does, however, find tonight's viewing to be of great interest. She, too, is a Castle fan of sorts.
"I am surprised," Cassandra tells her. "He is nothing like the media portrays him to be. He is nothing like the YouTube videos I have seen."
"Oh, so you are a fan," Kate teases her, elbowing her in the side jovially. It's a comfortable move for Kate, but one that the older woman is not used to seeing from her boss. Not that Cassandra is complaining, mind you.
"How can one not be a fan?" Cassandra replies, laughing with Kate, enjoying this unusual casual downtime with the woman of the house.
"All of his books – they are magical. His imagination is wonderful. You don't get an Oscar and a couple of Emmys without having some talent. That much is undeniable. But he is not . . . he does not appear to be the man I assumed he was," Cassandra continues.
"You have no idea," Kate thinks to herself.
She has been double-minded for the past hour. It has been difficult watching and listening to the man she loves gush praise – so lavishly and so intimately – upon another woman. Especially Kyra. But to his credit, Castle had warned her that this was exactly what he would be doing. His goal, he has told her, is to change his persona to something more akin to who he really is; to begin to repair decades of damage to the reputation of his name.
His name, as he told her, is carried by his daughter and son. His actions – whether intended or not – would always be laid at the feet of his children. By mean-spirited middle schoolers and high schoolers for Peter, and by highly competitive college students for Alexis. He has already learned this lesson the hard way, with Alexis in their original timeline, as the young girl tried to navigate the school landscape with a page-six father.
He won't do this to her again . . . he won't do this to Peter either. Not anymore. It is critical that he give them a different playing field. It is absolutely an imperative that he change the ground rules for them.
And further, he has told Kate that his wife of this time period deserves far more than he has given her. His words to Kate, this afternoon, after he had landed in Los Angeles, stung long and hard. He didn't mean them to. It was totally unintentional, and he tried to catch himself before the sting was complete. Unfortunately, he was too late.
"Kyra deserves retribution – publicly, Kate," he had told her. "And I'm going to give it to her. I've been an ass to her in the public eye, always concerned about making myself look better – and too often, to the detriment of Kyra. The videos I've seen of myself . . . they are horrible, Kate. And usually ending up making her look . . . less than she is. And still, she's made me better, it appears, but I'm still a jerk. And she's had to live with it, as much as my kids who are on the other coast. Well, they're here – or I'm here – you know what I mean," he had stumbled clumsily, getting his thoughts together. Thoughts that he had already laid out during the six-hour flight, but now those thoughts are not coming together as words very easily. For an author with a great command of words, the irony is not lost on him.
"I've treated her far worse than I have treated you, while she has treated me far better than . . ."
He had stopped right there, hoping he had hit the brakes in time. But deep in his heart, he knew he had skidded across the finish line.
Kate knew.
Kate knew exactly how he meant to finish that sentence.
"She has treated me far better than you."
He didn't even need to say it. Kate knew. And he knew. The only thing he didn't know was why he was thinking this now. Why – after a year together – had his insecurities with Kate reared their head once again. Last week had been a game-changer for them. He had stayed with her, not leaving her to die. Their reward? Gates came public with them, allowing them to come public themselves. Now, the final barrier to them moving forward completely had been taken out of the way. Yet, here he sits, a little over a week later, wondering why two days with Kyra Blaine has thrown his emotional state into the blender.
And Kate, for her part, is exactly where he is – if not more so. She's in the blender, on full pulse mode.
She's married to a man she can't stand . . . but with each passing hour, her rationale for why she hates Senator Bracken grows weaker, and weaker. She considers him the murderer of her mother . . . only her mother isn't dead. She's alive and well. Her father is fine. She has a sister. She has a child.
A daughter. Given to her by this man.
A ring on her finger. Given to her by this man.
A rapidly-rising career. Gained on her own, no doubt, but clearly mentored by this man, who opened the right doors for her. She walked through those doors on her own, of course, but those were doors that should have been closed to her for at least another decade.
If not for this man.
And she hates this man?
She hates this man who didn't kill her mother, who mentored her, who fell in love with her, who put a ring on her finger and child in her belly. And who despite the heavy load of political leadership, by all appearances he constantly rushes home – by plane, train or automobile – at the first chance just to be with his family. His daughter. His wife.
Her.
So yeah, she listens and watches this interview with growing interest, and highly conflicted emotions. Make no mistake - her love for Richard Castle isn't diminishing.
But her hatred for William Bracken is.
"Is it possible?" Cassandra asks her, pulling her out of her reverie as she reaches to her right and grabs the glass of wine from the coaster on the sofa table beside her.
"Is what possible?" Kate replies, blinking quickly and looking at the woman who clearly is more than just a nanny to the Brackens. To her.
"Is it possible that a person could change . . . really change . . . this much . . . almost overnight like this," Cassandra asks, pointing toward the television screen. The look on her face is one of bewilderment.
"Oh I think so," Kate tells her, and she has to take this position. She has to answer this way because she is beginning to believe it herself – about herself.
She's often discounted the concept of people changing – really and truly changing – unless they have come through some type of life-altering circumstance. And when she considers her own self, and her slowly-but-surely diminishing hatred for William Bracken . . . well, yeah, it appears people can have a dramatic change of mind . . . and heart.
Yeah, people can change sometimes. Under life-altering circumstance. Circumstances like getting your murdered mother back. Like having a child. Like having the business career you always planned for – that you went to college for. That you dreamed about.
Yeah, those kind of changes.
Her attention is drawn back to the television – the interview is back on, and the host is wrapping things up. Her timing could not be more providential.
"Well, Rick, I must say that this has been an eye-opening hour," Katie King laughs, glancing at her audience and then reaching her hand across the small coffee table to shake the hand of the novelist/playwright.
"Thank you, Kate," he replies affably, taking her hand and shaking it. "Likewise, I hope you know."
"I have to tell you, not many people are willing to put themselves out there as you have, Rick," she continues. "I think – no, let me say it a different way – I hope that there are a lot of people who are now altering their views of Richard Castle."
"Perhaps," he gives her, "but in truth, I'm only really concerned about a few people. Those who are closest to me," he continues, and now he has turned his gaze away from Katie King, and now is facing the cameras. He is an expert at being interviewed, and be interviewed live. Hundreds of book tours and press tours through the years will give you this comfort level. He always knows where the cameras are, and when the right time to face those cameras arises. Up to now, his full attention has been on his host – with an occasional glance and acknowledgement to the studio audience. She is the expert interviewer, no doubt. However, he is no less an expert in being interviewed, and getting his views, his thoughts, his story, across to an audience.
Now, however, his eyes are fixated on the camera. Now, he has a much different audience who needs to hear this.
"Sometimes, you have to be willing to do anything . . . anything" he stresses, "for those you love. No matter what it ends up costing. No matter what the outcome turns out to be. And you can only hope that person realizes how much you love them – how much I love you – and that everything I have done, no matter how it has turned out, was for you. It was for you. Always."
The audience, the media, the press, all of the articles in the next hours that are written – they all believe him to be speaking directly to his wife. To Kyra. To his kids.
In New York, a tearful Kyra Castle grips the sheets of her bed where she lies, basking in the unusual public affection her husband has given her. Sure, inside their home he has always been the gentleman – sweet and kind and considerate. But in public, he has always allowed a very different persona to take over, all too often at her expense.
In California, a stunned Alexis Castle and an equally confused Peter Castle stare dumbfounded at their television screen, joyful yet cautious over what they have just heard.
But in Kate Bracken's – nee Beckett's – high rise apartment home, she has turned her head away from Cassandra so that the older woman does not see the tears springing into her eyes. She stifles a sniffle, clutching even tighter to the tiny sleeping form in her lap. Because Kate Beckett knows exactly who those concluding thoughts were intended for. She wasn't sure, for a while as he was saying them. They could have easily been for Kyra, or for Alexis or even Peter.
But one word had changed all of that.
"Always."
With that single word, she knew he was talking directly to her.
She knew that – despite the potential happiness he has found here, despite the happiness she has found here, and despite the fact that he has two children he is rebuilding the bridges towards – his love for her has not diminished either. And in his own, unique way, he has found an avenue to speak directly to her, using a word that would certainly sound poetic to others . . . but would scream intimacy to Kate.
She glances back at the television, eager to catch another glimpse of him before the show ends. He is standing now – well, at least attempting to stand. He stumbles, a look of agony on his face momentarily before he regroups, catching himself on the small table.
"Is everything okay, Rick?" Katie asks, startled by his . . . his clumsiness? Is that what it is?
"Everything is fine," he replies, smiling – offering a look of bemused embarrassment. Fortunately Katie buys it, as does the audience.
Kate, however, has placed her fingers over her chest – to the spot that occasionally hurts now, as she is finally putting two and two together. She's seen him limping. She just hasn't really commented on it. Maybe it was because he wasn't commenting. Just as she has not commented about the pain in her chest. But now it's clear that his limp is pronounced. He is hurting. For a brief moment, she wonders if he is going to have to have it replaced.
Her train of thought is interrupted as the credits begin to roll. The show has ended, and Kate is hoping for a phone call. If not, she will call him. There's no one there that should question her calling – not in California. They wouldn't know her anyway.
She glances over at Cassandra, who is eyeing her warily.
"Is everything all right, Ms. Kate?" Cassandra asks. Clearly the woman knows her very well. She's picking up on Kate's different nuances.
"Just a long few days," Kate replies, and it's the truth. "Nothing a few hours of shut-eye won't take care of," she continues as she slowly moves from underneath Madison. Reaching down, she lifts the young girl into her arms.
"She's so light," Kate thinks to herself, and then begins to walk towards the stairs as she cradles the young girl.
"Do you need help, Ms. Kate?" Cassandra asks. Her wide-eyed expression is not seen by Kate, who already has her back to the woman as she carries her daughter up the stairs to her bedroom.
"Nope, I've got this," Kate tells her, smiling but not looking back.
Behind her, Cassandra views the woman walking away with a raised eyebrow and a multitude of questions.
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Monday Evening – April 29, 2013, at the exact same time somewhere in Washington, D.C.
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The older, silver-haired man frowns, his brow furrowed deeply now at the television screen here in his hotel room. The single tumbler in his hand, filled with golden liquid is half full. He lies length-wise on bed, on top of the covers, relaxing after another eventful day.
He, too, has been watching the interview between Katie King and Richard Castle. With few exceptions, he always makes the time to watch when Richard Castle in on television – whether for interviews, conferences or some award show.
And he, too, has noticed some broad differences between the man on the screen and the Richard Castle he knows. A frightening thought had occurred to him roughly twenty-five minutes ago, during the second break. The author seemed different. Too different. As though he were a different person.
No. Not a different person. A displaced person.
Once the commercials ended and the interview resumed, he had pushed the thoughts away, out of his mind. It was a stupid thought. It wasn't possible. He had sat back and enjoyed the latter part of the show – right up until the end. Right up until the moment where Richard Castle had shaken King's hand, and then had tried to stand, but stumbled instead. He watched Richard Castle immediately grab for his hip, then just as quickly let it go, trying to catch himself.
As if he were trying to hide something.
"You're injured, son," he says aloud, and again, he would know. Jackson Hunt watches all of his son's appearances, and the last time he had seen his son on television was only a mere two months ago at the Academy Awards. And his son – then a presenter for an award – was the model of good health. He had looked spry in his walk, and videos from one of the after parties that made their way online showed a dancing and limber novelist cutting it up on the dance floor, having a grand time.
Further, he has heard nothing of any injuries to Castle, and he makes it his business to know – with alerts sent to him almost daily about the man.
Jackson Hunt returns to his initial thought of half an hour or so ago, and curses loudly. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, placing them onto the floor as he sits the half-filled tumbler atop the nightstand. Frowning, he pulls out a hardened laptop, opens it and fires it up quickly. He enters the IP address of a server, located at an undisclosed area to all but him, and using it as a host, pings a second IP address. He smiles when the second location returns the ping, and he logs in using his classified credentials. His small monitor displays a back-end screen with a series of gibberish – numbers, symbols – nothing making sense. Entering his encryption key, the screen slowly morphs into legible words, which replace the symbols and numbers.
He glances down to the bottom of the screen, where the word 'Kronologix' is displayed.
He enters a few keystrokes, initiating a command, and views a history of 'transactions' and notices a particular name, with longitude and latitude numbers along with a date. He ignores everything – for now – except the name.
Richard Castle.
He notices the name below that of Castle's, and glances at the other numbers alongside. Same numbers, which tells him he wasn't alone.
Kate Beckett.
Livid, he slams the laptop closed and stands, pacing quickly, a run of expletives escaping from his mouth. Finally, needing some type of outlet, he slams his open palm across the lampshade, knocking the light fixture to the ground. Dammit, she was supposed to disable the technology. Put it away. The technology was designed for one purpose, and one purpose only. One purpose, one time only. She knows this. She was a part of this. She knows how dangerous this is.
"Sandra, what the fuck have you done now!?" he asks aloud, as he stands and quickly moves to the closet, pulling out a suitcase and gathering his belongings.