Ch 2.

The Discovery

I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in it's absolute effect – in terror.

Edgar Allan Poe

Sound asleep, Castle sits, head groggy as if coming off an all night bender, eyes stinging, hair damp, every muscle aching as a stiff pain radiates through his back, wrists and ankles. He's got to stop falling asleep in weird positions at his desk. Wait, why do my ankles hurt? Trying to chase the fog from his sleep-addled mind he shakes his head. Wow, his mouth is as dry as cotton. What did I do last night? I don't recall going to a party. Don't think I had a wild date. As his vision begins to clear, the familiar surroundings of his office fail to come into focus. In fact, he doesn't recognize the setting at all. Alarm bells begin sounding in his head as he becomes more coherent by the second, likely due to the adrenaline now coursing through his veins. After visually perusing his environment with more lucid eyes, his overly creative mind begins to process, scrutinizing every detail of what he quickly determines to be a very troublesome situation. The cotton taste in his mouth is actual cotton, a knot of fabric, forcing his jaw wide, stretched around his cheeks and tied at the back of his skull, tightly. His wrists are bound to the very uncomfortable chair he's currently occupying, his ankles tied in the same manner. Momentarily his thoughts wonder to how great it would be if Beckett had kidnapped him, but since that had about a 0% possibility of being true it's obvious he's dealing with something far from a fantasy. Wracking his brain he tries to lock in on the faded memories, grasping with slipping cognizance, unable to hold onto the faintest of visions. Perhaps it's the ache at the back of his head indicating he'd been knocked cold that's keeping him in his drowsy stupor and preventing memories from surfacing. Well, this certainly isn't shaping up to be anything other than a dire situation.

The only light, a couple of single bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a few wall sconces, flickering as if containing candles, submerge his senses in mostly darkness, but he can see enough to determine he's in a large room, no windows so perhaps a basement. Cinder block walls surround him. A chill in the air with a coppery tinge floating on it has the hair at the nape of his neck standing at attention. That can only mean one thing…blood. A table stretches out before him, covered in what appears to be…bones? Odd. Focusing a little more clearly, the ones near the left end look dull and drab – please don't let it be remnants of tattered flesh forming that patchwork of patterns - while the ones in the center appear bright white. But then the sound of buzzing flies penetrates his ears as he tries to block it out while simultaneously coming to the conclusion… someone is cleaning bones. God I hope those are from a cattle-processing plant. All of this, however, is not what finally earns his most intense analysis. The smaller table covered in very pointed, very sharp cutting tools of every size and shape, that's what has his writer's mind churning out one dreadful scenario after another. He really wishes he hadn't done so much research on knives for his Storm novels, learning how each one is designed with a different purpose in mind, giving it the capability of inflicting any number of varying injuries…including death. A positive outcome becomes less likely by the minute.

His head snaps up to the sound of a lock being slid back, drawing his full attention to a door about 20 feet away. As it swings open a small-framed man enters his line of sight. A wily sort, can't weigh much more than Beckett, if that, since he appears a little shorter, but the look in his dark eyes is purely savage, dangerous. As he approaches, Castle searches, but can't find any sign of humanity within those cold eyes, leaving a sinking feeling whirling in his gut as his skin starts to prickle in warning.

In a low voice laced with venom, "I see you're finally awake. I guess I hit you a little too hard… or perhaps your skull is just a little too weak for my purposes. I only accept the finest specimens you know?" Walking a wide circle around him, as if sizing up his prey, Castle suddenly feels the gag release as the man approaches from behind then backs away quickly to continue his circling.

While licking his lips in search of any moisture his mouth can produce, a voice sounding mysteriously like Beckett's pops into his head chanting, keep him talking.

"What exactly are your purposes?" Specimens?

"Oh, I guess you didn't exactly get the tour did you? Well, not awake anyway." A malicious snicker is heard around the room before he continues. "Perhaps I'll show you around before it's too late."

"To late for what?"

"So many questions, Mr. Castle."

"You know who I am?"

"Of course, and I know your detective friend as well."

Pure rage spills forth in his voice as he growls, "You stay away from her." His blood feels like it's burning through his veins as he thinks about those grimy hands touching his detective…well, maybe not his, but certainly not this freak's either.

Edging towards cockiness, "Oh I fully intend to keep my distance, at least right now anyway. I only took you to prove my skills worthy. You say she is the best so this is me, proving I'm better."

Castle begins tugging against his restraints, testing their limitations, looking for a point of weakness as anxiety becomes his foremost emotion, not just for him, but for Beckett as well. He doesn't want her becoming the next subject of his focus, especially since he will no longer be around to protect her by then. He finds the thought of her being in danger more distressing than whatever the creep is planning for him.

With quick steps & practiced fingers he replaces the gag from behind. Perhaps he can only hold his own against witty banter for so long. "You might as well relax, Mr. Castle. You aren't going anywhere. She will never find you in time…or at all." His shoulders shake with laughter. Preying on women and tying up his victims is likely the only way this barbarian has ever felt powerful.

His eyes widen as he watches his captor lovingly run the tip of his finger down one of the bones, a tender caress in passing as he circles around again. What the hell was that about?

As the small, but deadly man approaches Castle's front this time, the air turns acrid around him. Having little choice but to breathe through his nose since the gag filling his mouth prevents anything else, he finds himself forced to smell every last fragrant atom. He thinks back to the cartoons he watched with Alexis in her childhood and almost smiles as he remembers a green cloud following a decidedly aromatic character, but this cloud smells of death and destruction, not humor. Perhaps that means it should be a red cloud…he's not sure. Then suddenly it hits him like a slap to the face…this is the bone collector…so he'd been dubbed…the possible serial killer case Beckett's team has been working on. Why didn't I pay more attention to the case? Oh yea, I was proving to myself I could get over Beckett and move on, but failing miserably. Well, dire is no longer the best descriptor he can think of as several more pop into his mind…climacteric, exigent, calamity…and so on. This is the downside to being a writer and possessing an extensive vocabulary and colorful imagination. You can describe things in so many ways and in far too much detail. Perhaps he can pass the time by thinking about Beckett, his daughter, his mother, all the people he loves, keeping his focus on happier times while praying he gets to see them again, although he knows that possibility is slim at best. Having been distancing himself from Beckett he has inadvertently distanced himself from his protector and friend as well, talking with her less outside the office, she doesn't even know he's missing.

The last thing he sees is a rag being brought to his nose before the world around him dims. His feather light grasp on consciousness slipping and fading into blessed nothingness as his last thought fires through his synapses…at least in unconsciousness I can't see or feel my captor, a beast light on bulk, but of ferocious aspect, preparing to deliver the final blow.

Late that evening a chime from her phone draws her focus from the book in her lap. "Finally, Castle, where have you been?"

"Kate, it's me, Alexis. I take it that means my dad isn't with you?"

"No, sorry, Lex. I haven't seen him all day, nor have I heard from him."

"Detective, I think something's wrong. I haven't talked to him all day either. When I got up this morning I just assumed you had called him away on a case as he wasn't here fixing breakfast like usual, but when I got home this evening I checked his office and things seem a little out of place. There's a scotch glass on the floor along with his laptop and he's nowhere around. The brown leather sport's coat he wore yesterday is lying on his bed, meaning it wasn't slept in…and Kate, his phone is here. That thing is like an extra appendage. He never leaves here without it. I should have tried to touch base with him or look for him this morning before I left, but I just assumed…oh my god."

As Kate contemplates what time she last spoke with him she recalls texting him around 9:00 the night before, asking if he'd be in the next day and she received a reply right away saying most likely he would, direct and to the point, offering no guarantee, but a reply nonetheless. Realizing just now it seemed to be lacking his usual flare, although not that uncommon for him lately, her insides begin twisting and knotting. She hadn't put too much thought into his absence when he failed to show up at the precinct that day, he hadn't given her a guarantee he would and he hasn't exactly been himself lately. Wow, could someone else have used his phone or is he just so over her that he quit trying to make her smile… laugh?

"Alexis, calm down, but don't touch his phone."

"You're scaring me, detective."

"Try to think clearly, do you remember him saying anything about a book signing or a reading or anything like that?"

Yea, he had a signing yesterday evening. He was planning to go to Gram's play then remembered the signing, but he called afterwards, just as he was finishing up and leaving. Now it's Monday night, a full 24 hours later, and I just realized I haven't seen or spoken to him since. I was in bed when he got home after the signing because I had a test the next day. Then after school today I went to Paige's to study. If you haven't seen him today either then none of the people he's closest too have seen him in over 24 hours. Kate, I'm really freaked out. If he's not with you then wher…"

Cutting her off before she works herself further into a state of panic, "Let me call Paula and you call Gina. See if he had anything going on after the signing."

Her stomach, wrenching with spasms, the fear and concern for her partner and friend, hitting her hard. He may no longer care for her, but her feelings towards him haven't changed. Well, perhaps they have, but if anything they've only intensified since he started pulling away.

Waking some time later with a throbbing headache pounding against his skull and blurry vision swimming in his eyes, he can faintly see the silhouette of the same vile man standing before him… well that and the vomitous aroma filling his nostrils. At least the gag seems to be hanging loose again.

Approaching Castle, knife in hand, an evil grin breaks across his face as he stops before him, closes his eyes, taking in, then letting out a long breath with a gleam in his eye. The sick bastard is enjoying this, getting off on it, his pulse pounding below the surface making it obvious. Drawing his hand from his pocket he produces a tape measure, the old kind used by seamstresses. Unrolling it he begins taking measurements, arms, legs, neck, skull… as if about to tailor a custom suit, but Castle has a feeling it's not clothing he's measuring for, the length of his bones being more likely at this point.

So quick Castle almost misses it, the knife swipes upward, deftly splitting his shirt without touching his skin.

With the same evil glare in his eyes he starts running the tip of the blade along Castle's skin, sliding over his neck, across his chest, down his arm, as if choosing where to begin. Evidently deciding, the flick of his wrist has Castle's watch falling to the floor, landing face down. Damn that's an expensive watch.

Perhaps he can buy some time, for what he doesn't know, but more time has to be better than less, considering he's at the mercy of a barbarian. "She's going to find you, you know? You've challenged the wrong detective. Once she sets her mind to something there's nothing that can stop her. Taking her partner was a mistake on your part… that is…unless getting caught was your plan all along." As he speaks, his overactive imagination almost begins to believe his own words.

"I've been successfully evading the police for 15 years, leaving no evidence, not a scrap to be followed. There's no way she can find me so just sit back and enjoy your little adventure…it will be your last after-all." A menacing smile curves his captor's lips, displaying a set of crooked and decaying teeth as Castle's veil of confidence from a moment before swiftly begins to transition into apprehension.

Not sure what he was dosed with, he can still feel his head spinning and throbbing as if detached from his shoulders. Wishing it would have had a powerful anesthetic in it, he braces for the pain to commence…and it does. The tip of the knife leaves a line of blood in it's wake as it slides with great vigor across his forearm then penetrates, gritting his teeth and holding his breath as if it will help him withstand the torment, making the slicing, stabbing sound of blood trickling agony more tolerable. Why he doesn't know, but his mind conjures a Nietzsche quote, "One should die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly." Not a comforting thought, but death might become a welcome friend compared to this. A groan escapes between clenched teeth, but he holds his guttural screams at bay with all his might, not willing to provide the maniac any further pleasure. Thanks to all that is holy he feels his consciousness fading - again.

Next time he awakens, his hazy mind struggles to form coherent thoughts, make sense of his discomfort as a gleam of silver catches his eye. Focusing with all his will, the butt of a knife becomes his focal point, protruding from his right arm in a Christ like fashion, effectively nailing him to his chair despite the fact his earlier bindings seem to have been severed with a new harsher means of restraint taking their place, his left arm a mirror image of his right. The now useless rope lies within a small blood pool near his feet, turning red before his eyes as he tries to focus on anything but the pain. He finds his body momentarily numb, almost hypnotized, as he watches the nylon absorb his life force. He vaguely wonders how long he's been here, how long he's been posing as a play toy for this psychopath. How much time he has left is probably the more pressing question as he hears the shuffling footsteps of his tormentor approaching once more.

Yes, I know it's more angst and case centered instead of my usual smut. Just thought I'd try something a little different, but it gets better...eventually. Always happy to hear from you, the readers.