Kairos – Chapter 25

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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Tuesday Evening – April 30, 2013, 10:47 p.m., at LaGuardia Airport in New York City

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"Mr. Castle! Mr. Castle!"

The flight attendant gives the novelist a small shake on his shoulder, rustling him out of the deep sleep his has fallen into.

"Wha . . . What?" he exclaims, regaining quickly regaining consciousness, and immediately noticing that the plane has landed and is, for the most part, empty. All of the other first class passengers have already de-boarded, as have the majority of passengers from coach. He stares out the window, seeing the other planes lined up at their designated gates, in the dark of night.

"We're here . . . in New York, Mr. Castle," the attractive woman tells him. She desperately wants to ask for an autograph, but the author had spent the entire flight sleeping. They hadn't even pulled away from the gate at DFW International Airport before he had fallen asleep. No drinks, no snacks, no warm nuts.

It has been a long two days for Richard Castle, and the hours had finally caught up with him. He didn't get much sleep last night. He spent a couple of hours in the bar at the hotel after sending text messages to both Kyra and Kate that he was tired, and headed to bed. He needed a little time to relax, and to think without any interruptions.

His interview with Katie King from last night is well out of his mind, as most of his thoughts were about the dramatically increasing pain in his hip. A pain that has resurfaced now, as he pulls himself up from his seat in the fifth row of first class.

He painfully reaches up to the overhead compartment, and pulls his overnight bag out, grunting as another jolt of pain shoots down his leg. He is tired. He is cranky. He has been flying literally all day. His flight from LAX had left at eight in the morning, with a layover in Dallas. The three hour time difference from the west coast to the east coast is also playing with him. He smiles at the flight attendant, now standing at the doorway to the jet-bridge as he moves now with a very noticeable limp.

His mind conjures up an image of a Richard Castle, grey stubble on his chin, cane in hand . . .

At this hour, there are no more flights heading west from his gate at LaGuardia, so the gate area is virtually empty as he steps through the doorway from the jet-bridge into the gate area, dragging his four-wheeled small suitcase behind him. He considers placing a call to Kyra, to let her know he has landed, but decides to wait until he is in the taxi cab. Right now, he doesn't want to expend any energy on unnecessary motion – and that includes the simple act of reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving his cell phone.

The lone man in the gate area, seated in one of the seats just to the left of the boarding area, stands as he sees the novelist depart. He wears large, lightly tinted black-rimmed glasses and a New York Giants baseball cap to match the large letter jacket from the NFL team.

Castle is too tired to notice as the man approaches him, his head down and his steps slow and easy. The man pulls up alongside Castle, and falls into step with him as he walks down the large corridor away from his gate and towards the escalators some one hundred or so yards away that will lead him downstairs to baggage claim and the taxi stands.

Castle finally notices the figure walking alongside him, and sees the TSA badge hanging around the man's neck. He doesn't give him a second thought, until the man begins speaking.

"Richard, keep moving, don't do anything sudden, and don't do anything stupid," the man tells him as they continue walking. He waits until a startled Castle glances his way again to open up the right side of his New York Giants jacket, revealing the weapon in the shoulder holster there. He does this subtly with his right hand, as his left now grabs Castle's right arm, ensuring his movement and cooperation.

"Who are you?" Castle asks, trying to extradite his arm, unsuccessfully.

"I just told you – nothing sudden, nothing stupid," the man tells him. "Trust me, there is far more at play here than your stupid little mind has dreamed up, and I won't hesitate to put a bullet in you right here, right now, surveillance cameras or not. Are we clear?"

"We're clear," a now clearly awake and aware Richard Castle replies, allowing the man to lead him along. Suddenly, the man lets go of Castle's arm, freeing him.

"Keep moving," he tells him, "and don't try to run. I doubt your hip will let you get very far anyway," he continues, which stops Castle in his tracks.

Yeah, that did it.

He stops with him, allowing the moment of shock to sink in before continuing.

"Come on, Richard," Jackson Hunt tells him. "We've got to get out of here."

The two men are now looking at each other, and Jackson's fears are confirmed. He can see it in Castle's eyes. The recognition. Castle knows him. They've met.

Only they haven't.

"Dad?" Castle asks, now clearly confused.

Hunt shakes his head angrily, now grabbing his son's arm again, and this time he is all but dragging Castle down the corridor. He doesn't say another word as he leads him down the escalators.

"Dad, what's this all about?" Castle begins. "Why are you-"

"Shut up!" Hunt orders, with such ferocity that for once in a long time – Richard Castle isn't just shocked or taken aback. No, he is flat out frightened for his life.

They walk in continued silence for another hundred or so yards, exiting toward their right where the cabs are all lined up. The cool spring air is a pleasant change to the stuffiness inside the baggage claim area. To the right side of the taxis, there is a large, black SUV. The rear lights blink – with a chirping sound – as the doors unlock as they approach. Hunt drops all pretense now, taking the handgun from his shoulder harness and pointing it at the writer.

"Get in," he tells him. "Now. I won't ask twice."

A weary Richard Castle complies. This is his father. So he isn't going to hurt him . . . not really. Is he? Right now he isn't sure of anything. Not anymore.

Hunt slides into the driver's seat, placing the weapon in the door slot as he closes the door. He fires the engine up as he turns to address his highly agitated passenger.

"How do you know me?" Jackson begins as he puts the vehicle into motion.

"What?" Castle asks, incredulously. Then it hits him. This is a different timeline. Who knows how – or if – he has ever met Jackson Hunt. And from the look of it, the two haven't met. Ever.

"I'm the one asking the questions," he replies with a glare, and suddenly his right hand flies horizontally, slamming against Castle's chest. He wheezes broadly, trying to catch his breath. Hunt accelerates now, pulling out of the taxi area, and within a couple of minutes, they are on the Grand Central Expressway, heading toward the city.

"Now that I have your attention," Hunt continues, "answer my question. How do you know me?"

"You're my father," Castle replies softly, rubbing the offending area on his chest. "You're in the CIA. We met a couple of months ago. Alexis was kidnapped. Russians. I went to Paris. Met you there. Kind of like this," he almost chuckles. "You helped rescue my daughter. Your grand-daughter."

Hunt continues to drive the SUV, quiet for a moment as he considers everything he has just heard. It makes sense, dammit. He shakes his head, once again cursing internally at Dr. Sandra Windholm. He will deal with her later.

"Kronologix. How many times?" he finally asks his passenger, who now has calmed down and stares out the window at the buildings that whiz by.

"Two," Castle asks. He knows what he is being asked, and it's clear that this man – his father – knows what has happened. How, he doesn't know yet. But he isn't going to risk another shot to the chest, or worse, a shot of a different kind given the weapon that is still within his father's reach.

"Twice," Hunt repeats, shaking his head, trying to quell the anger that rises inside him. "That's great. That's just great," he muses to himself, muttering under his breath.

He flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, taking a couple of deep breaths before looking at his passenger again.

"So, I want you to listen to me, and listen closely because I am not going to repeat myself," he begins. "I am your father, as you have indicated. We, however, have never met. Ever. I have made sure of that. This kidnapping you referred to, this rescue you referred to . . . didn't happen. Not here anyway."

Castle simply nods his head. He's figured that much out already. He figures his father is going to fill in the remaining gaps. And these gaps must be bad, because the man sitting next to him is beyond angry.

"Okay," Castle replies simply. "I understand."

"No, you don't understand!" Hunt explodes again, causing another shiver to shoot down his son's spine. "You have no idea what . . . you have no idea what you could have done!"

Suddenly, Hunt reaches across Castle, popping open the glove compartment. He pulls out a small light kit. Rolling his window down, he places the light atop his side of the roof, and turns it on, along with a siren. Seconds later, he is accelerating, weaving between traffic and blowing past the traffic that pulls over for him.

"Care to explain what –"

"No, I don't," Hunt interrupts. "We'll be there in fifteen, twenty minutes," he tells him. "Until then, just shut up Richard. Just shut up."

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Tuesday Evening – April 30, 2013, 11:33 p.m., At the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn

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Richard Castle walks through the front door, into the now all-too-familiar first floor lobby area ahead of his 'host', who openly brandishes his weapon behind him. The room is dark – absolutely no lights whatsoever. This is new.

As soon as Hunt turns on the lights, using the light switch at the door, Castle notices two things.

First, the windows are all boarded up, and taped shut. He nods, now realizing why no light was entering the room.

Second, he notices Kate Beckett, tied to a chair in the middle of the lobby room. The chair is bolted to the floor, and sits atop a thick carpet. Probably to muffle the sound, he figures. Tape covers her mouth, and the restraints on her hands and arms and legs are professionally done.

"Kate!" he screams, rushing to her side, trying to ignore the increasing pain in his hip. For some reason, Hunt allows their reunion. He allows Castle to take the tape from her mouth, and allows him to begin to untie her as well.

Hunt, for his part, moves casually throughout the lobby to the café area. He goes into the small kitchen, opening the refrigerator, and – to the stunned surprise of his guests – retrieves three water bottles. He tosses one to the now freed Kate, who catches it in the air. He tosses the other to his son. The third, he keeps for himself as he moves in front of the couple, motioning them with the gun, to sit on the small sofa bench in the reception area.

"Now, first things first," he begins as the couple takes their seats. "A few ground rules. I don't give a damn about your daughter," he tells Kate, eyeing her evenly.

"I don't give a damn about your wife," he says, glancing at Castle, before returning his gaze to Kate.

"And I don't give a damn about your husband, or whatever the hell this is that you and my son have going on."

"Your son?" Kate asks, eyes widening. Suddenly, she glances at Castle.

"This is . . . he's your father?" she exclaims.

"Enough with the introductions," he tells the couple. "Really son? The district attorney? You have a great wife, who loves you at home. But it's not enough? And you?" he says, glancing at Kate, before growing quiet for a few seconds.

"No matter," he says, not even allowing for an answer, deciding it's unimportant. "What I want to know is why. Why did you two do this? How in the hell did you meet Dr. Sandra Windholm? And what in the hell possessed you to do something so stupid . . . not once . . . but twice? Shit, you two take the cake, you really do!" he concludes, shaking his head. He's getting angry again. He doesn't want to be angry. He doesn't like it when he's angry, but he can't help it. Too much has happened to allow these two . . .

He shakes himself away from those thoughts, turning his focus on the couple again.

"Start talking," he tells them. "I really don't care which of you starts . . . but one of you better start explaining yourselves."

"Can I start by asking a question, Dad?" Castle asks, using the title that he hopes will grant him even a modicum of leeway here. It works, as Hunt eyes him with a raised eyebrow before removing his baseball cap, tossing it to the side.

"One question," he tells his son.

"How did you know?" Castle asks. "We've been in the same room – close range – with people who should know us very well, who should have seen if anything was off. Obviously you saw something and searched us out right away. How'd you know?"

"Your hip," Hunt tells him. "You don't know me in this timeline, but I know you. I've always kept tabs on you. I see you on television, on award shows, on the internet. I'd seen you just a couple of months ago and you were perfectly healthy. Last night, you struggled to stand up. You winced every time you moved. I know the tale-tell signs of a reconstruction. I just hoped that wasn't it. When I logged into the transport room, I saw both your names, and the date of your . . . transmission. A couple of days ago. That's when I knew."

"Logged in?" Kate asks, unable to halt her natural curiosity.

"Every time the transport room downstairs opens a wormhole, it logs the date, the time, the location and who was transmitted," he tells her. "I suppose I should have had it automatically send me an alert each time as well . . . no matter . . . anyway, that's your one question. Now start talking. How'd you meet Windholm, and what in the hell did the two of you do?"

"I'm a writer," Castle begins.

"I know that," Hunt replies.

"She was a fan," Castle continues. "My last book . . . in my timeline . . . included an element of time travel. She told me she was intrigued by my theories. She told me –"

"Bullshit!" Hunts spits. "The only thing Sandra reads are scientific articles and interviews. She has no time for the crap you write. She'd no more read a fictional novel than she'd jump off a building."

"Maybe in this timeline that's true," Castle argues. "But in my –"

"Son, don't bullshit me, I'm not in the mood," Hunt tells him. "You two don't know what you are playing with. What you could have done. This technology, this facility – Kronologix – it was built for one reason, and one reason only. And trust me, it didn't have anything to do with a writer or district attorney going back in time for God only knows what."

"My mother," Kate tells him. She lets her words hang in the air for a moment.

"What about your mother?" Hunt asks.

"She died," Kate tells him. "I was in college. She was murdered. Unsolved case. Castle and I went back to –"

"Castle?" he interrupts. "You call him Castle?"

"Never mind about that, Dad," Castle tells him. "Finish the story, Kate."

"Rick . . . your son and I are together . . . we were together in our timeline. Rick went back with me to stop my mother's murder."

Hunt is quiet for a moment, staring at the couple. He's angry, sure, but he's also a realist. He can't be angry with her. Or him. He can imagine how it unfolded now. A well-respected scientist comes to them with the offer of a lifetime . . . one that can make one's dream come true. A parent died. A parent taken away. And someone offers you a chance to right a wrong. Someone offers you a chance to get a loved one back.

No, he can't be angry with them.

Sandra, on the other hand . . .

"Okay," he begins, rubbing his hands through his hair. "I can understand, Ms. Beckett, why you would do such a stupid and selfish stunt. You don't know better. It's like the universe smiling on you – you thought this was a good thing. A chance to right a wrong."

He stands now, beginning to pace again. He puts the gun back into his shoulder harness, now seemingly ignoring his guests.

"Sandra, however, knew better," he continues, now clearly talking to himself.

"She knew that it was wrong to mess with the timelines for personal gain. She knows the one, singular reason this technology was built – why we funded the whole operation in the first place.

He looks to the couple and waves them toward him as he walks to the elevator, depressing the down arrow.

"Come on," he tells them. "Let's get this over with."

"What?" Castle asks.

"Look, I'm trying to be nice here," Hunt replies, slightly opening his jacket once again. "Don't make me have to take this out again. I might not be so hesitant to use it next time."

Kate eyes him with anger and surprise.

"You would threaten your own son?" she questions.

"I would kill him in a nanosecond to protect what we have accomplished," he tells her evenly and she can tell that he is serious. Deadly serious. She and Castle obey, quickly joining him in the elevator. The ride – as expected – goes seven floors down once again. The trio is quiet for the short trip, and when the doors open, the bright lights bathe the downstairs facility, causing them to squint momentarily.

When they step off, Castle notices there is a figure in the middle of the room, some hundred or so yards away. He – or she – is sitting in a chair. Immobile. As they draw closer, he can tell it is a woman. At twenty yards, he is not surprised to discover the identity.

Dr. Sandra Windholm.

She is tied up, trussed much as Kate was, and with a similar strip of tape across her mouth. Castle moves to free the doctor, as he did Kate, when a loud booming echo reverberates throughout the facility. Dr. Windholm falls over, a large gaping hole in her forehead.

Castle and Kate both scream out loud, and Castle angrily turns to face his father, who offers him a nonplussed explanation.

"Don't worry," he tells them. "When you get back, she will be alive and well again."

He reaches into his jacket again – this time on the left side – to retrieve a piece of paper. No, it is more than a piece of paper. It is a carefully folded newspaper. The headline page. He hands the page to his son, whose hands immediately start shaking uncontrollably. He barely is able to hand the page to Kate Beckett, who gasps, falling to the floor as her legs give way. She stares down at the page, shaking her head.

"No," she whispers.

"I'm afraid so, Ms. Beckett," Hunt tells her. "This is why we built Kronologix. It is the only – and I do mean the only reason this place exists."

She reads – once again – the headline on the old, slightly faded paper screaming at her. She notes the date at the top.

April 17, 1942.

U.S. Surrenders.

She reads the smaller headline just below that.

Hitler to arrive at Capitol tomorrow.