The sunset light stretching out over Block Island Sound is the saddest thing to see alone. Hues of orange and gold set the quarrelsome crests of the water ablaze. It is so fleeting and fragile the colors seem to exist more in memory even as Beckett gazes upon them. Waves originating from indeterminable sources, far-flung weary travelers, rear up one after the other to dash themselves into splashes of sea foam upon the rocks. Jagged and pitted, gleaming like ebony teeth in the transitory shades of dusk, some of those crags conspire with the shadows to form haunting replications of faces. She catches glimpses of the writer who isn't here now, but was long ago. That is merely her mind at play. She knows better, but quakes briefly upon the hilltop where she stands.

The patient hand of time has whittled away at the bluff. It's less now than what it was even as little as forty years previous. The slope is more pronounced; an uncontrolled descent could take a life. But she's aware now that it's always been capable of that.

This is it. Where you fell—where you were thrown.

Beckett is not prone to letting her emotions be swayed by some sad fancy. It is the flesh-and-blood world which has always presented her with the greatest threats. Working with the NYPD demands fortitude in that respect, and within her are veritable oceans of it. Yet there are vulnerabilities amidst all of that strength, maelstroms into which all of her prodigious reserves may be poured and poured again, never to be filled or sated. Ironic, that one such cynosure should be the man who in so many other ways bolsters her.

Wait. Is that ironic—or just fucked up? Castle would know. He'd get a kick out of her asking.

Dissuaded from the lofty perch and its splendorous view, Kate turns in the calf-deep snow. She moves through it, winding gradually back around the towering lighthouse with its single broad, brown stripe. Passing from the glimmering half-light into its shadow elicits another, more sensible kind of trembling. She burrows deeper into the patterned navy scarf about her neck, curls the sleeves of her Burberry coat about her middle. Retreating thus, like some facsimile of Humpty-Dumpty holding herself together, she doesn't make it far before what she's doing brings her to a halt. Her eyes lift from the ground at her feet to skim ahead, noting the tracks of her arrival cut into otherwise virgin fields of snow. She's doubling back.

There's a metaphor in here somewhere, something horrible and sad. But he would remark on it in a way that could maybe make it seem a little funny too.

Suddenly she's pissed. A man that's given her so much deserves far better than the past she's becoming familiar with. He deserves…justice. The woman is keenly aware of the absence of her sidearm. Her fingers curl within her gloves as a phantom sensation moves through them, the imagined shock of impact that comes with pulling the trigger. There's no face or figure in her mind to attach to the name Llewellyn Matthews. Instead her imagination conjures the outline of a figure and fills that space with oily blackness in the semblance of a man. And she disperses it with round after round, ripping the thing into fine mists of darkness that spray out across the snowfall in great swaths.

"Kate?"

Beckett stands over the downed thing, the not-man. She's not trembling or emotional, but a coldly committed harbinger. It is pure righteousness, not revenge, which drills several more rounds into the prone figure. The blackness becomes an indistinct and widespread blotch around a greater, goopy core. Spatters pepper her front, thickening with each concussive blast until it's difficult to discern where the evil stops and she begins.

"Detective Beckett?"

When John Autry's heavy hand thumps down upon her shoulder the idling vessel that is her body…explodes. The deputy is a tower of might, but she is tensile steel with the speed of a viper. Kate whirls, jerks him forward by his arm, dislodges his center of gravity with her hip, and snatches the sidearm from his hip holster even as he's rolling through the air to crash, stunned, upon the snowy ground. He looks up from his back with gaping eyes into the blackness down the barrel—a man who sees the end of everything one wrong tick away.

His hands slowly rise from his sides with the palms splayed in surrender.

Everything within her is poised, taut. Merely holding the weapon fills some painfully empty gulf inside of her. All the detective needs or wants is to fulfill the rest of the fantasy that's just played out in her mind. Please, please, please! The entreaty booms through her skull, though she hasn't any clear idea exactly what she's imploring for—only on whose behalf it is done.

All the world is still. Only this exists.

John's voice, for all its depth, emerges in an unsteady murmur. "I'm not him, Kate."

Beckett draws the longest, shakiest breath. It leaves with the softly exclaimed, "Oh gosh."

"Yeah," John agrees, still a statue of caution at her feet.

"Ah shit!" she husks, smacking her forehead with her free hand and backing away from him. The gun shakes in her hand as it lowers to her side. Her appendage convulses around the thing, dropping it into the snow as if it wriggled free of its own accord. "Oh my god, John. I'm so sorry."

The deputy's hands flop. His barrel chest expands and retracts with a gulping breath of relief.

She lurches forward with the thought to offer a hand, but he shies from her, rolling onto his side and pushing slowly to his feet. Dark eyes are still wide with fright, his expression slack. He shifts where he stands on legs as thick as tree trunks, now as unsteady as a newborn colt. "Okay?" he asks foolishly.

"I'm so sorry," Kate says again, deeply chagrined.

"Alright." He blinks, seems to rally himself before her. "Phew. Okay. That—that was my fault."

"Like hell."

"No," he huffs on the exhale of another deep breath. "No, I could tell you were somewhere else." Knowing eyes find her and lock on firmly, probing. "I didn't know where."

Shame rises into Beckett's cheeks via a crimson mantle. For some reason she finds herself telling him, "I-I'm a good cop, John. I'm straight-up."

All evidence to the contrary, ya vigilante bitch.

Shush, brain!

The man before her frowns briefly. He looks like someone who's assembled a puzzle but for a lone piece that's been gobbled up by the vacuum cleaner. "Yeah," he finally says, but she can't tell what the word really means. He glances down and brushes away the powdery snow coating his jacket and uniform. Kate starts to go for his weapon to return it, but a flaring of wariness in his expression and posture makes her think twice. She backs away a pace as he retrieves and holsters it.

"I really am sorry," she offers again.

"Alright," he mutters. "Just shut up about it." She smiles uncertainly, and then somewhat more easily as he meets her gaze and strokes his clean-shaven scalp with almost boyish ruefulness. He's not embarrassed about being taken down by a woman—just about being taken down. That's a breath of fresh air even despite the circumstances. "We good?" he poses gruffly.

"Good," Kate confirms, though she still feels like a dunce.

"Good." John shifts the belt around his waist unconsciously and jerks a meaty thumb towards the house at his back. "Everyone's waiting. Let's go."

Beckett nods and they proceed side by side around the corner of the house. John's truck waits nearby, a blue Ford F-150 with an extended cab and all-wheel drive. The engine is ticking softly as it cools. Next to it is the red truck she noted on her previous visit with Rick. It's capped with enough snow to suggest it's been idle for days. Apparently their host doesn't get out much.

Hesitance slows Beckett's steps as they move towards the awaiting front door. She stops several yards from it and her companion does the same. "You know why we're here," she submits.

Undercover work suits the deputy. His expression gives away nothing as he considers the question. "I really don't." His bass is something else. She can almost feel the words as much as hear them. "I know what happened to Richard, to the girls and their families. I saw the impact it created for the people around them. I know what it did to this town." With a carefully neutral tone he adds, "But I don't understand why we've come here to get the story when you're marrying the person at the very heart of it all."

Ouch. He didn't convey the words as judgment, but it's all too easy to infer.

"It wasn't my idea," she returns, bristling.

"No," he readily agrees. "I got that much from your reluctance to come." Oh. When she doesn't interrupt he nods once and continues, "It's clear that Richard feels his account of events is somehow lacking. My question is: how so? And what makes him think that? Don't you find it strange?"

"So far strange is par for the course," Kate mutters. John favors her with a wan smirk. "Yes, very strange," she confirms at length. "I was hoping you could explain."

"I'm afraid not. Maybe Henry Calloway can. Shall we?"

Beckett nods and follows the deputy inside. The guy ducks his head unconsciously. She might've suggested turning sideways too—he's just that massive. There is an odd twinge of impatience that's come and lingered since she left the beach house in the man's company. It too is something that exists more in her mind. It's doubtful he could ever most fast enough to suit her, but as it happens he's a study of deliberate, economical motion. Seriously. She likes tall men, and well-built ones at that. But this is too much. He's a goddamn roadblock.

Bah! Beckett slips under his left arm when he lifts it to remove his coat, quickly shucks hers and drapes it over a bench near the doorway. She dislodges her boots and ditches him in there, following the sound of Martha's voice deeper into the home. Warm lighting suffuses the place. There was expectancy of finding an overabundance of nautical décor, but the dwelling is ordinary, cozy. In fact, the only homage to the nearby Atlantic hangs in the living room upon the over mantle of the fireplace; an expansive and breathtaking print of Winslow Homer's Sunlight on the Coast. A fire crackles in the box. Martha and their host are arranged before it, the former in a beige glider rocking chair and the latter in… Oh. A wheelchair.

"Katherine," the actress greets warmly. "Let me introduce you, dear. This is Henry Calloway. Henry, please meet Katherine Beckett."

The lighthouse keeper turns the sleek black chair expertly upon the hardwood floor. He must have been young when he took the job, because Kate estimates his age in the early-to-mid sixties, which would've put him in his twenties when…that night happened. Though Henry's hair is white, it's still thick. His face is careworn, but his brown eyes are sharp. They widen somewhat to behold her and his jaw does a little dip of surprise.

Why thank you.

"A brunette?" he exclaims and shoots Martha a searching glance.

Huh? Well phooey. So much for the ego boost. She arches her eyebrows questioningly.

Martha just smiles somewhat and shrugs at him.

"Oh-ho!" the man declares as his gaze returns to her, and thumps one of the arms of his chair. "Well doesn't that beat all? It's lovely to meet you. Come, come, please. Pull up a seat, dear one."

Dear one? Eh. She's been called worse. It's not worth protesting. Besides, there is a kind and caring energy about their host. He gestures to a cushioned brown leather chair nearby with a few quick flourishes, hustling her along with genuine enthusiasm. She claims it with a subtle smile of amusement.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Calloway."

"Oh-ho! She has manners too?" He beams, observing her with a firm nod as if he were a prospector conveying approval of his new homestead. "Splendid. But please, call me Henry. I insist. Can I tempt you with anything? Coffee perhaps? Tea?"

"Oh, no," she politely protests. "I'm good, thanks."

"I baked apple turnovers this afternoon," he offers, eying her shrewdly. "My secret recipe."

"Tempting a woman with an apple?" It's John's voice, preceding his entrance from the hall. "You really are an old devil, aren't you, Henry?"

Martha laughs.

The older man sniffs and turns pointedly away, viewing Kate askance. "It would seem a monstrous bull has followed you into my home. Did you notice? Is it yours?"

"Nope," Kate denies with a smirk. "Mine's merely full of bull."

They laugh, and it feels good. It pushes back the reason they're gathered together for a little bit longer. Yet even an allusion to the author who has prompted their attendance slowly brings them back down to earth. The small assembly quiets and the lack hangs upon the air for several seconds. John takes a place on the floor near the fireplace, leaning an elbow upon the broad hearth.

"What's weird about me being a brunette?" Kate poses, hoping to ease them into things.

It's not as light a topic as she hoped. John looks away. So does Martha, with a small frown. Henry doesn't, but his smile becomes tempered with a dim sense of sadness. "It's just a quirk of his—of Richard's. Maybe you've noticed a preference for…lighter shades."

Somehow the younger woman just knows. "Laura had dark hair."

No one confirms it—not audibly, but it's as good as emblazoned upon the air. Being a brunette doesn't make Beckett part of an exclusive club per se. There have been other dark-haired women in Castle's past. Still, there was a definitely a preference to the contrary at work in her fiancé's previous dalliances.

"Look what I stepped in," Kate murmurs by way of apology to all. The comment elicits a different affect from each person, but all seem sympathetic to the conversational minefield she's striving to navigate.

"It's for the best," Henry declares quietly, but firmly. "This particular elephant in the room is no temporary fixture. More apt to say that the room lives inside of it." He rolls a bit closer before settling and resting his hands upon the arms of his chair. "Do you have any specific questions? Or should I just…explain my part?"

"I usually prefer to let a witness speak on their terms," she answers with a gentle smile, "and fill in the blanks as we go, if it's all the same to you."

"Ah. That's right. You're a detective. That's…" Henry sighs and shakes his head, evidently not knowing what words to use from there. "Very well." The man moistens his lips and considers briefly. Then he begins, "I understand you already know that I was unaware of having visitors that night. Llewellyn's comings and goings—or Richard's. If I'd seen them I could've tried to…" A strain laces his voice. The man stops, clears his throat and nods once. "But I didn't. I have no role in it to speak of."

Beckett blinks in confusion before her gaze shifts to Martha.

"You're here," Henry continues, "because I know these waters. I know what happened to Richard after he…went in. Merely the events, mind you. How he interpreted them is distinctly…different."

"Oh," she issues softly. "Oh man." That's where we're going to start—the part Castle couldn't bring himself to divulge? They sure as hell aren't wasting time. "Okay."

One of the keeper's aged hands crosses the gap to Martha's pair, which are fisted together upon her lap. He squeezes briefly in mute supportiveness. "It occurred in the dark of the morning—around three thirty. It was still high tide, which is maybe why he survived the rocks to be borne out to sea in the first place." Kate's eyes shift briefly to the others. Martha and John are silent, both staring deep into the nearby flames.

"From the point nearby depths increase rapidly, from two feet at the rocks to a rapid plunge of nine feet. Swimming is prohibited here because of that, but more so because of Cat's Eye shoal—a sandbar some fifty yards in length that's located several meters from shore. It's an elliptical formation from north to south, hence its moniker, but from land it presents a barrier to the tide, and is a common place for especially deadly rips."

"Rips?"

"Pardon me, dear one. Rip currents."

"Oh. Uh. The shore here is all rocks. Isn't that—I thought it was a beach thing?"

"It is, but they may occur anywhere with breaking waves." She thinks Henry would have made a good teacher. His tone doesn't wary on her interruptions, but becomes animated instead, as though the man is emboldened by her willingness to question. In other circumstances she would be similarly pleased. "Maybe you noticed earlier that the rocks here vary from one another. There are natural occurrences, but also ruins from the history of this place. Additionally, you'll find foreign deposits placed by workers attempting some manner of erosion control over the years. When all is said and done, however, the original geography of the shoreline is just as inviting as any other to this dangerous phenomenon. Waves break and disperse in an upflow that spreads out along the shore. You've seen that occur before I'm sure."

"Sure."

"Gravity pulls what isn't absorbed by the sand back into the ocean: that's the force we call undertow and it varies in intensity. Trouble arises when that dispersal is prohibited from returning to its natural state below sea level. The danger here in particular is Cat's Eye shoal, which acts as a retardant to the water returning to the sea. But there's a break in the sandbar located almost directly off the point which serves as an easy outlet. Waves comes in, break, and naturally course back out through this channel. It's a particularly violent example of the process. An average rip can pull you away from shore in as little as waist-deep water with velocity that rivals an Olympic swimmer. The force involved here is significantly more insistent."

Listening to the details in a scholarly fashion is oddly distracting—or maybe that's Henry. For a moment there she forgets that they're talking about what happened to her fiancé. But when he pauses to let the visual sink in, the image of a scared five-year-old boy returns sharply. So much so it's difficult to breathe around it.

"How did he not drown?"

"Rip currents come about from the same forces at work behind undertow, but they are different. Imagine a rip as a river flowing back out to sea. Swimmers who get caught in them are imperiled not by submergence, but by the distance they're carried from shore, which varies from modest to considerable. Some people panic and attempt to fight the current, exhausting themselves. Drowning may result, but it is no forgone conclusion. In fact, surfers often seek out rip currents, using them as transportation of sorts when they're paddling out to the break line."

"So it just…carried him away. That's pretty much what Castle told me too."

Henry looked briefly to Martha, whose blue eyes were narrowed with anger. "Yes," he said slowly. "But we would be remiss to apply the indiscriminate nature of a rip to what happened that night."

"Right," Kate replies quietly. "Because Castle didn't go into the water willingly."

"A recent estimation concluded that eighty percent of lifeguard rescues involved rip currents."

"And Llewellyn was a lifeguard. Oh damn. The ocean was his murder weapon." Rick had said something to that effect beforehand, but at the time it hadn't struck her as being so fiendishly deliberate.

"Just so."

Kate sighs. Her fingers unconsciously curl around her ponytail and clasp it. "I'm not sure what to ask in this case, Henry. Please, just…keep going."

"Of course, dear one." His voice isn't like John's. It's capable of almost disappearing beneath the crackle of the fire and the moaning of the wind against the house. "The waters here are quite literally hot and cold. We have the Gulf Stream pushing up from the south and the Labrador from the north. It's what keeps the temperatures here relatively mild throughout the year compared to places further inland. It's why the fishing flourishes the way it does." He pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts. "Currents are not as static as people often imagine. They shift somewhat depending on any number of factors. By and large, however, when you introduce something to the Gulf Stream you can safely bid it adieu. It's famously strong and swift."

Kate moistened her lips. "Rick said he was drifting for hours."

"Northeast," Henry replies with a confirming nod. "For no less than three hours, perhaps more. When I say the current is strong I mean that in terms of comparison. It moves at a rate in the neighborhood of five miles per hour, which doesn't sound like a lot…" The rest went unsaid.

Yeah. It doesn't sound like much until you're fifteen miles from shore.

Beckett's gaze shifts to Martha again, but the woman looks to be in another world. Her eyes are glazed with a glossy sheen from which no tears escape. "So what happened? You're telling me he should've ended up a continent away or something."

"It was a storm that saved him," the keeper answers quietly. His expression seems to have aged. "Just a storm."

Kate started to reply, but stalled. The prickling of an unrealized epiphany crept along her spine. There was something eerily familiar about the situation being described. She couldn't place it though. "A storm."

"Not a local one. It happened many miles from here. But its violence created a small series of rogue waves. Have you heard of such things?"

"I think so. They're like—what, a tsunami?"

"Not exactly. Tsunamis result from tectonic activity. Rogues are typical to deep ocean. They were thought to be nautical superstition once, before we had the means to record more precise oceanic data. Despite being designated as unique forms of waves they are not necessarily the largest ones. Rather, they are abnormally large for the wave sets in which they occur. In this case, amidst a tropical storm, two large waves among the rest were sent charging westward, first one, and then ten minutes later a second. It was only a few years ago we learned about this. A group of students from the University of Rhode Island visited during the summer. One of them spoke with me and mentioned having read about the storm. It was documented by a Portuguese freighter out of the Azores—it was there, caught in that precise storm. The crew estimated the height of the two rogue waves around eighteen and a half meters—that's about sixty-one feet."

"Holy shit."

"Yes, well, no one took them too seriously. There was no data to back it up. Technically, there still isn't."

Beckett's gaze shifts to Martha and John, both of whom are looking back at her with seeming expectance. The feeling of walking the knife-edge of a realization assails her again, stronger than before. It remains frustratingly elusive. Her attention refocused on Henry. "Technically?"

"Well, as it happens there is a strikingly similar account that describes a storm fostering two massive waves of similar height."

"Rick," she says simply, because he's the obvious choice.

"Martha says you're familiar with his writing." That's one way to put it. "Surely you recognize the climactic scene from his first novel, In a Hail of Bullets."

Oh shit.