Kairos – Chapter 28
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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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Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 11:00 a.m., just inside Central Park in New York
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His scream is long, it is loud and it is agonizing. It bellows throughout the trees above them, sending a dark chill down Kate Beckett's spine as she watches the man she has grown to love over the years fall to the grass here in the park. He lands awkwardly on his side, which produces another loud, grunt of anguish.
This is more pain than Richard Castle has ever felt, and that includes a previous broken leg, a broken arm and assorted other injuries. There is something about this that is different, however, and right now, he is left gasping for air – unable to even catch his breath as the pain continues to jolt through him. It's as if someone has plugged his hip and leg into a light socket and turned on the juice.
She, of course, is by his side in an instant, kneeling beside him, searching her mind for anything – anything at all – that she can do to help. She places a hand alongside his face, apologizing profusely. She knows that everything he has done in the past few days – and the horrific price he is paying – all of this was done for her.
"I'm so sorry, Castle," she tells him softly, bending to his ear so he can hear her soothing voice, trying to calm him. A wave of guilt washes over her as she sees the look of pain – and fear – on his face.
Finally, Jackson Hunt kneels beside him in the grass as well. His bedside manner, however, is quite different from hers.
"Let's go, soldier," he gruffly orders his son. "We are here on a mission. One last mission. I told you it would be painful."
He reaches down and begins to pick Castle up from the ground. Kate begins to fight against him, wanting Castle to catch his breath. Wanting the pain to go away. Hunt slaps her hand away, startling her with his ferocity.
"He can hurt later," Hunt tells her. "And trust me, he will be hurting a lot worse than this when we go back. But for now, we have a job to do."
He lifts Castle to his feet, ignoring the grunts of pain which are now drawing attention from some of the mid-morning park visitors who walk by, jog by, and find themselves just relaxing on the benches.
"He's fine," Hunt yells toward onlookers. "Just took a fall. If someone can flag us down a cab, we'd be very appreciative."
A younger man in a sweat suit and a Yankees beanie cap takes off toward the entrance to the park, some one hundred or so yards away to wave down a taxi for the trio. Hunt begins to drag Castle in that general direction, with Kate now coming underneath Castle's other shoulder to provide more support.
"Come on Richard," Hunt tells him. "We can't carry you the entire way."
Suddenly, Hunt stops in his tracks, and grabs Castle by the chin. He pulls Castle's face toward his, and gives his son a deep, penetrating gaze. Castle's eyes are clouding, and Hunt can tell he's losing him. He'll be unconscious in another few seconds if he doesn't do something.
He slaps Castle across the face. Hard.
"Richard!" he hisses – not angrily, but aggressively. Kate is ready to intervene but a second gaze of stone from Hunt stops her, open-mouthed. He turns his attention back to Castle.
"Richard," he continues. "I know this hurts. But the pain is in your mind. Focus on my voice. Come back to me, Richard. Focus. The pain is in your mind – not your leg. Focus, son."
Somehow Castle begins to listen to the rough, scraggly voice that urges him forward. He blinks a few times. The pain continues, but his eyes are a bit clearer now.
"Beckett, go make sure we have a cab waiting," Hunt tells her, looking in the direction of the park entrance. "Ask them where the closet pharmacy store is. That's our first stop."
Kate is about to ask a question when Hunt interrupts – he is losing his patience.
"Time is ticking," he tells her. "We have less than ninety minutes, and now we have an additional stop to make!"
She begins jogging toward the entrance, wondering why she hasn't felt a sharp increase in the pain in her chest from this latest reconstruction, as Castle most definitely is. Behind her, Hunt begins moving again, pulling Castle along who – now – is clearly dragging his left leg.
"Almost there, son," Hunt tells him, now using the more personal jargon. When they first arrived, he knew Castle was going to be in bad shape. So he opted for more of a sergeant-soldier role. That didn't work. He immediately saw that had no effect on Castle, so he quickly morphed into a father-son role. This seems to be working better. He finds it odd that Castle would respond to this, knowing that – even in Castle's own words earlier – they had just met only months ago in Castle's timeline.
It takes another two minutes, of slow, deliberate walking and dragging and coercing, but they finally make it to the street curb where, thankfully, Kate is standing next to a cab she has held – acquired by their good Samaritan jogger.
She helps Hunt slide a gasping Richard Castle into the back seat, then slides in next to him. Hunt comes around the other side.
"The closest Duane Reade or Walgreens," she tells the cab driver once Hunt is inside and settled. She turns to Hunt, who is gazing outside the window, now oblivious to both of his passengers.
"So, tell me why we are going to a pharmacy store?" she asks. "I'm guessing you don't just happen to have a powerful painkiller prescription on you."
"A cane, Beckett," Hunts calmly tells her, keeping his gaze on the surroundings outside the window. "Richard isn't going to be able to walk on his own. And I don't know about you, but I'm too old to drag his ass around the city."
His frankness, his complete lack of empathy toward his son is causing a range of reactions within the detective-slash-district attorney. First of all, she doesn't want to be here. She knows that the changes she and Castle made have been dramatic – hell, catastrophic depending upon one's perspective. A Kate Beckett might opt for dramatic. A Lanie Parrish or a Jenny Ryan would definitely pick catastrophic. And Castle? Who knows where he would be leaning? And second, of course – she knows what has to be done here on this trip.
Regardless, she grudgingly has to agree with Hunt. Castle is in no position to walk on his own. He needs help. She reaches over, tightening her grip on Castle's fingers, and she notices that his eyes are clear, now. He's starting straight ahead – likely focusing on the pain, but he is calm and rational.
She's not happy with the pain he is in, mind you, but it is not lost on her that – because of this pain – Castle is in no position to help on this trip. At least not in person. And Kate is good with that. Because she realizes, damning herself as she thinks this, but she knows that if he were the one to make sure the letter gets delivered, she has no idea how she would react when they return.
Would she understand?
Would she forgive him?
Would she hate him?
She knows her tendencies, her history, and everything she knows about herself suggest the latter. She nods her head as she glances at Castle, realizing that the universe has taken that decision out of their hands.
It has to be her. As it should be.
She opens her mouth to speak when Castle turns his head away from her, towards Jackson Hunt who sits next to him, next to the window. He speaks with short bursts, and his breathing is still a bit ragged as he focuses beyond the pain, beyond the next jolt.
"As we were leaving . . ." he gasps, and grabs a quick breath, closing his eyes.
"You mentioned a name . . ." he says between breaths.
"Diane Cavanaugh," Hunt repeats, and with this, Kate's head turns sharply toward Jackson Hunt, craning her neck as her eyes darting between Castle and his father.
Yeah, she recognizes that name, also.
"You're sure?" Castle asks.
"That was Sandra's mother's name," Jackson Hunt confirms, only now recalling the brief question and answer session he and Castle had before their transmission. "Why? You couldn't possibly have known her."
"I didn't," Castle manages between short breaths he is managing to suck in. Kate completes the sentence for him.
"But my mother did," she tells Hunt, her eyes narrowing. It's all starting to fall into place now. With that one name – one simple name – both she and Richard Castle now immediately understand how wickedly they have been played.
"All makes sense now . . ." Castle manages, wincing again has he blinks quickly, pushing the tears away.
"A set up," he says softly, shaking his head.
"What are you talking about?" Hunt asks, and now it is his eyes that are searching back and forth between the couple in the cab with him.
"What do you mean-"
"She played us," Castle tells him. "Like a pro," he gasps, as a single tear makes its way down his right cheek – easily visible to Kate who can only squeeze his hand more tightly.
"She came to visit Castle," Kate takes over, trying to remain calm amid the storm that has exploded inside her chest with this latest revelation. "Pretending to be a fan of his, saying she'd read his last book. A book which – well, now we know it is just an ironic coincidence – but that book had a time travel plot in it."
"Do tell," a slightly more intrigued Jackson Hunt mentions, his eyes narrowing.
"She told him that his ideas on time travel were actually plausible, actually close to reality, something along those lines," and with those words, she sees the entire demeanor of Jackson Hunt change. She realizes that she has – in fact – with those words, proven every one of his fears to be totally sound. Which he does not hesitate to remind her.
"A simple writer – no offence –" he turns and tells his son before turning back and focusing his words to Kate. "- a mystery author writes a time travel story that is realistic and plausible – this according to the one person on the planet who actually would know, who actually designed a working time travel operation . . . and you wonder why I'm concerned someone else might discover this . . ."
He shakes his head. He knows what he is going to have to do. It's the only way. He puts those thoughts out of his mind. For now. He turns his attention back to Kate.
"So Sandra visits Richard . . . and?"
"Long story short, Richard and I look her up and go to visit her, to ask more questions. She was good. All this time she wanted us to go back and save her mother. But she made us think it was our idea – and she made it sound like an investment opportunity for Richard . . . when in fact it was her way of getting us to save my mother."
"Okay, you've lost me –" Hunt tells them, before Castle interrupts.
"Diane Cavanaugh," Castle repeats. "Her mother."
"She worked with my mother," Kate tells him. "They were attorneys together. Joe Pulgatti sent –"
"Joe who?" Hunt asks.
"Joe Pulgatti," Kate replies. "The mobster who was in prison, who sent the letter to my mother that started all of this."
Hunt nods his head, glancing ahead at the cab driver who quickly averts his eyes. Yeah, he's going to have to deal with this guy also.
"My mother," Kate continues, "received Pulgatti's letter, and took his case. She had a few co-workers working with her on the case. Not only was Mom killed, but so were three other people. Diane Cavanaugh was one of them. She was killed a couple of months after Mom. The killer, Dick Coonan, spread the murders out to make them appear unrelated. It was originally written off by the NYPD as gang violence. Random killings. It wasn't until years later – over a decade later – that Castle and I found the real killer. And the man he answered to."
Hunt nods his head, gazing at his son who is struggling again. He surprises both of them by taking Castle's free hand, and giving it a squeeze. At least, if nothing else, Kate has answered the question that was vexing him – and that was why Sandra would use them – Castle and Beckett – in her attempts to change the past.
"So, if your mom never receives the letter, then she never takes the case. She is never killed," Hunt muses aloud. "And if she doesn't take the case, if she is never killed, then there is no reason for Sandra's mother to be killed," he continues. He stares between the two once again.
"So Windholm approaches me . . ." Castle winces, pushing another wave of pain behind him as best he can. Talking is hard, but it actually helps. Thinking of something other than the electricity jolting his body helps.
". . . in order to get to Kate," Castle continues.
"Knowing that we work together . . . that is common knowledge," Kate agrees.
"So the final question," Hunts asks, and he once again places his gaze outside at the scenery passing by as the cab weaves throughout traffic.
"My final question, "he repeats, "is simply this: How in the world would Sandra know that your mother's murder was linked to her mother's murder? Remember, Sandra – like me – was a timeline transplant. She has no memory of what happened here prior to 2012. So how would she even know that her mother's murder was linked to your mother's murder?"
"I don't know," Kate replies honestly. "Perhaps during her own personal investigation, she saw that her mother worked with mine, and then noticed that my mother, along with another co-worker of theirs, they were killed all within a few months. To be honest, now that you think about it like that, how in the hell did the NYPD not see that linkage between all three of them?"
"They didn't want to," Castle replies, softly and breathlessly as the cab pulls over to the curb. Castle looks out the window to see the Duane Reade convenience and pharmacy store.
"We're here," he tells his companions.
"Ms. Beckett?" Hunt requests. "Please step out and get Richard here a cane."
Kate looks at his, surprised by his request.
"I figured we would all get out and –"
"Richard needs to walk as little as possible right now," Hunt interrupts, "and believe me, I am not so stupid as to go in there myself, and leave the two of you alone."
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Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 11:42 a.m., outside The Beckett Law Firm, P.L.L.C. in Queens
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Kate Beckett stands a few feet to the right of the front door leading into the small, quaint two-story building where her mother works. Inside, she knows, is Richard Castle. Not the Richard Castle that is sitting in the taxicab, just down the block. No, inside the building is the Richard Castle who – just a few days ago – made that first trip back to 1998 with her. He's inside waiting for the mail – and a certain letter – to be delivered . . . waiting to intercept the letter that changed her life. He can't get too close to the Richard Castle who is also visiting this timeline.
"Let's go," Jackson Hunt tells her. He stands next to her, and he understands her hesitation, although he suspects that 'his son' inside the building won't struggle so much with the reality of speaking to Kate, even though Kate is supposed to be at the library waiting for him. And he won't struggle with understanding why he – Jackson Hunt – is here. After all, the only reason he is here is because of time travel himself.
"Just remember, play nice with him," Kate offers in a warning tone. "He has no memory of you from the past twenty four hours. All he knows of you is that you saved his daughter – saved him – a couple of months ago in Paris."
"I've got this, Kate," Huint tells her, throwing her slightly off her game by using her first name.
He opens the door for her, watching her as she walks in. Both brush off the snow that has lightly dusted their clothes. He is amused by the look of surprise on Richard Castle's face as Castle sees Kate walking in. She's supposed to be back at the library, as far as he knows. Hunt loses his battle to stifle a laugh, however, when he sees the look of utter confusion on Castle's face when he sees his father walking in behind Kate.
"I know this is weird," Kate begins, with her hands up in the air as an apology, "and that's saying something, seeing how you and I pretty much define weird . . . but it's me, Castle. Not the 'me' that is sitting at the library right now waiting for you. She's still there. This is the me – who just made –"
"Oh for crying out loud," Hunts moans, stepping in front of Kate, and now addressing Castle.
"Son, let me cut to the chase," he begins. "You can't intercept the letter. The changes in history that happen because of what you are getting ready to do are enormous – and not very pleasant, by the way. "This," he points to Kate, "is a version of Kate that lives after the second of your trips back to the past."
Castle is blinking now, staring between his father and the woman he loves. Surprisingly to Kate, but pretty much as Hunt suspected, Castle isn't recoiling in horror. He isn't rejecting this outright, as she would likely do. Instead, he is putting this together pretty quickly.
"You're from the future?" he asks.
"I told you he'd get it," Hunt tells Kate. He then turns his attention back to Castle to answer his question.
"One of the futures," his father replies. "Problem is, this here isn't your only trip to the past."
"We came back a second time, Castle," Kate tells him, finding her path with words once again. "Because of what you and I did on this trip – what you are getting ready to do – so much went wrong. Mom lived. But Alexis died. Meredith died. Javier and Kevin died. We went back a second time, trying to fix things, but only made things worse . . . in some ways. Right now, my version of you is sitting in a cab down the block. You . . . he can barely walk. The reconstruction process has been horrible for you. For him. Shit this is confusing."
"The reason we are standing here in front of you, son," Hunt continues, taking over, "is to tell you that you have to leave. Right now. You have to get out of here. Let time play out. Go tell Kate what is happening. Now, if I know Kate, and if she is anything like the woman standing next to me, she isn't going to believe you. She's going to insist you come back here and get that letter, come hell or high water –"
"You know her pretty well," Castle muses aloud, much to the chagrin of the Kate standing in front of him. But can she really blame him?
"So take out your phone, Castle," Kate tells him, pointing to his jacket. "Your phone doesn't work here. But your camera does."
This is the plan she, Hunt and her Castle have come up with in the back seat of the taxi. Hunt told them that Castle would believe them. Kate told them that the version of Kate currently waiting for Castle in this timeline would not. She would need proof. More than anything else, she is a cop, and she's going to need proof. This is going to be the proof she will need.
"Shoot a video of your father and me standing here," Kate continues. "We will talk to me . . . we will talk to her," she corrects herself, shaking her head. "I will believe . . . she will believe what she sees on your phone."
"You do know how cool this is, don't you?" Castle exclaims, his eyes dancing. "You're telling me that I am sitting in a cab down the block . . . and I'm also somewhere else right now, much younger . . . and I am standing here with you right now. There are three versions of me here in New York. And there are three of you, too, Kate?"
Of course his mind would react like the ten-year old on a sugar rush now.
"Your phone camera, Richard," Hunt reminds him. "We're running out of time. The 'you' in the cab told us that the mail lady will be here any moment now."
Castle stares at the couple for a second, and then takes out his phone. He puts it into video capture mode, and presses the red RECORD icon.
"Trust me, Castle, this is not fun and games," she tells him, knowing he is recording. "There is so much more at stake than . . . than my mother living or dying. And I know that sounds crazy, hearing that from me. But if you do this – if we do this – Alexis dies. Meredith dies. Espo and Ryan die. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Your father and I – and you – we all came back to this point in time to stop you and me – you and Kate – dammit, you know what I mean. We came back to stop you, and reset things back the way they are supposed to be."
Kate – up to this point – has been looking at Castle, not the camera. Now she turns her focus to the camera. She has a message to deliver directly to herself.
"Kate – I know this is weird," she says, looking directly into the camera phone, "But trust me. You can't do this. This is life and death on a massive, massive scale. Before Castle and I came back the first time, we talked about ripples. We talked about them with Dr. Windholm. We talked about them with Kevin, and Javier. We should have listened. It is sheer luck that we even have the chance to come back again – and try to set this right. Please, I am begging you. You still have hours here, I know. I know you won't want to believe Castle when he shows this to you. I am begging you – believe him. Let . . . let . . ."
The tears in her eyes are real. They don't fall, as she struggles to contain them. She stares fiercely at the camera.
"Let mom go. She is . . . she is where she is supposed to be."
She stops talking, she simply looks down at the floor. She is mumbling to herself.
"Forgive me, Mom," she whispers.
It's enough for the Richard Castle standing in front of her, who stops recording. He slowly moves toward her, and stops in front of her, reaching out but stopping just short of touching her. It's almost as if he is afraid to touch a ghost.
"It's me, Rick," she whispers, and he pulls her into a tight embrace. He smells her hair, her neck. It smells like her. It sounds like her. It looks like her. And Mr. Creepy next to her is everything he remembers his father to be back in France.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice low, as the three turn their heads toward the front door that has just opened. The delivery person walks in, shaking the snow off of her coat and legs. She stares at the trio that stare back at her with blank expressions.
"Can I help you?" the woman asks them. For a few seconds, no one replies. Finally, Castle waves a hand.
"Hi there," he says simply, "and no. We were just leaving."
With that, the trio head to the door, stepping outside. Once outside, Castle grabs Kate's hand, and places his other hand on Hunt's shoulder. He glances up the street, then turns his head in the other direction.
"You're right over there, down the block, yellow cab on the curb," she tells him, knowing who he is looking for. He stares at the cab for a few seconds, and for a brief instant, doubt creeps in. At the same time, he sees the door open. A tall man is barely able to pull himself out. He is supported by a cane.
"That's . . . that's me?" he asks, a look of concern now painting itself across his face.
"Yeah, babe," Kate tells him. "You're not in good shape. This – for you . . . for him," she says, pointing to the figure down the road, "for him, this is the third trip. It has played hell with your . . . his hip."
"Damn," he mutters, as he had felt a slight bit of pain earlier when he arrived. Just a bit. But now to know that he has actually made three trips – and each trip has made him worse – and why in the hell did they have to come back a second time again?
Alexis!
Nothing else is said. Nothing else needs to be said.
"I'll take care of it," he tells the duo, and turns and walks in the opposite direction, looking to flag down a cab. He turns one last time, some twenty steps away, to look back at Kate.
"I will see you again?" he asks.
"I will be waiting," she tells him. "Always."
He smiles, turns, and walks further down the block before hailing a cab. She watches him until the cab is out of sight.
"Think he will be able to convince her . . . you?" Hunt asks her.
"Yeah," Kate replies softly. "He will convince me."
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Wednesday Morning – April 30, 2013, 12:33 a.m., Back at the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, NY
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Richard Castle lets out one, long, anguished bloodcurdling scream before unconsciousness overtakes him and he falls to floor of the transport room. It is a huge mercy from the heavens, as Kate Beckett looks down in horror at the man she loves. From the waist up, he looks normal, save the look of complete pain that paints his face with horrific features. From the waist down . . . well, that's another story altogether. A horror story that has come jumping off the pages, now come to life.
His lower half is damn near a caricature of the human body. His hip is . . . well, displaced seems to be the only word that makes sense. It isn't lining up with the rest of his body. It's as if someone has cut his hip away from his body and placed it back on – but missed by an inch or two.
His left leg hangs limp on the floor, while his right writhes in agony. At least it was until he passed out.
"No way he's going to be able to walk," Jackson Hunt notices, and immediately takes out his phone. He punches a contact – Kate thought he was going to call 911. It appears, however, that Hunt has other plans.
"I need an extraction," he begins talking into his phone. "Cod dash Delta Delta Bravo, at the location being transmitted."
He hangs up the phone, to look back at his son when he notices Kate also fumbling with her chest.
"Are you going to be all right?" he asks. "What's happening with you?"
"I'm fine," she tells him. He doesn't believe her. He decides, then and there, that when the chopper arrives, she is getting on it also, come hell or high water.
"Come on," he tells her, "Help me get him out of here and upstairs. And don't worry about being gentle. He can't feel it right now," he tells her as he picks him up roughly by the shoulders. Kate grabs his legs. Together they begin moving Castle out of the transport room where they have just arrived.
They pass through the doorway, into the large demonstration facility. They are on the platform, moving quickly.
"Watch the stairs coming up, right behind you," he reminds her. Kate glances back at the stairs, and begins stepping down. A few seconds later, they are walking briskly towards the elevator – Castle in tow – when Kate notices.
"Where is Dr. Windholm?" she asks aloud, a bit of alarm in her voice. The doctor, who was bleeding out not one minute ago on the floor here, is gone.
"I told you, she would be alive and well when we returned," he tells her. "But since she wasn't in the transport room when we left – she will have no memory of what happened. She could be at her house, or sailing on the Atlantic for all I know. She is wherever she is supposed to be in this timeline."
He sees the look of confusion on her face.
"Later, Beckett," he tells her. "It will all make sense later. For now, just understand that if she had been in the transport room, she would have physically been kept there during our trip. Proximity to the machine does that. Her memories would change, but her physical form is kept intact. Since she wasn't in the transport room, that didn't happen. Now keep moving, I've got help on the way."
Thirty minutes later, Hunt, Kate and Castle are airborne, in the military chopper that banks hard to the left, heading north.
"Must be going to the Connecticut location," Hunt muses aloud, just under his breath. He gazes at Kate Beckett, who stares at a now heavily-medicated Richard Castle. Her fingers brush his hair from his face. His hair is damp with sweat, his face clammy. She blinks away the tears as she gazes down at his unconscious face – a face that finally is devoid of any pain. He looks peaceful.
She considers all that has happened in the past few days – and that's when it hits her.
It's only been a few days!
It seems like a lifetime, but it's only been a few days. So much has happened. So much has been shown to them. She feels as if she has had a lifetime of classroom education on life, on valuing life, on appreciating life – in just the past few days. She glances out the window at the landscape flying by below them. She – and Castle – they have been given a glimpse of how things could be different. Different because of one decision. Some of those differences have been wonderful. Others have been horrific.
In the end – and she now is beginning to see this as a blessing – but in the end, the choice as to what to do has been taken away from them. The choice of whether to stay in that last timeline with Madison, with Bracken, with Kyra – or to try to return 'home' was taken away from them. The idea that she considers their original timeline – this new timeline now – as 'home' isn't lost on her.
Yeah, the choice was taken away – but the lesson remains.
There is so much she and Castle can do differently now – if they so choose. They have been given a second chance. She gazes down at his face, lovingly, once again. She allows her gaze to drop toward his legs, which are wrapped together now. That's when the tears flow. This has cost him so much. So much.
For a few seconds, she rubs and scratches at her chest. It itches now – just under the surface. She suspects it is more scar tissue than anything. She wonders why a chest – her chest – that has undergone extensive heart surgery has fared far better than Castle's lower extremities.
"He'll be fine, Beckett," Hunt says to her, loudly over the engines and blades as he interrupts her musings.
"I hope so," she tells him softly. He can't hear her words with all the noise inside the chopper. But her sentiment is evident.
"It's not your fault," he tells her. She glances up, glaring at him for an instant.
"He did what he felt he had to do," Hunt tells her. "I suspect that is who he is . . . because it is who I am."
She gazes at him for a few seconds, and simply nods her head. Perhaps he and his father are more alike than she realizes. Castle didn't exist in Hunt's original timeline, but he is his son, by blood, in this reality. And like Hunt has done what he felt he must, his son is no different.
She shakes the thoughts away, now staring out at the dark waters of the Atlantic, below to her right. The moon is casting an eerie glow on the waters that ripple below. She tightens her grip on the hands of the unconscious man lying next to her with her left hand. Her right hand holds her iPhone, while her thumb nervously types, as she googles the familiar search parameters that have defined the latter decade and a half of her life.
Her lips purse, and her head nods as she skims the results, before tossing her phone on the seat beside her, and she refocuses her attention on the unconscious form of Richard Castle.
Johanna Beckett, born February 4, 1951, died January 9, 1999
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A/N: Epilogue next. Thank you for reading. This one has been fun for me.