It takes a second to realize that she actually did it; because in the woman's mind her fist hits that bitter, selfish expression of unrealized ambition and it doesn't stop. The appendage penetrates, delves, and doesn't stop until it is firmly lodged in the squishy parts. In the contrasting picture of reality the pianist jerks back with a yelp of pain, and a twin to his agony erupts in her knotted right hand. Now it's real.

Oh shit!

"Katherine!" Martha yowls, erupting to her feet.

Richter knocks back in his chair, almost tipping it over. The legs slam back to the floor as he's cradling his nose in both cupped hands. There's blood.

John launches upright too. He looks so surprised. It's almost comical.

A slideshow whirls through Beckett's mind immediately on the heels of reality sinking in; charges laid, arrested for assault, her suspension, demotion. She could lose her shield, and even if not, her career could be stalled where it is indefinitely. Nowhere among the dire images exists an ounce of remorse. But she's still taken aback by herself. Eyes wide, she stands too, watching as Martha rushes forward to help the older man. She looks at John, matching shocked expressions, and sees his countenance slowly darken. No doubt he's thinking the same dire things about her impending future, but with the addition that he's the one who'll have to arrest her.

"Please," Richter says in muffled protest, easing aside Martha's well-meaning hands.

The actress reluctantly backs off. She whirls on Beckett, livid. "Katherine! What has gotten into you?"

The detective…doesn't know what to say. No. I do this time. But I don't know where to begin. She just sighs mutely. When Martha looks at Anton Richter she sees something very different. She associates the man to her son's blossoming talent—to better days in general. No matter that he's insufferably selfish and arrogant, or as good as a parasite. Heavy-handed though that description may be to people unknown, isn't it at least some approximation of the crowd the actress is often surrounded by? That's probably pretty close to normal in her world. As to the pianist's darker nature…people see what they want to see. If the job has taught Beckett anything it's that you can't cure someone else's denial—like she told Rick earlier. And if she's perfectly honest tonight…she doesn't even care to try. Martha Rodgers isn't her favorite person right now either.

"Well?" the actress practically screeches.

"Well what?" she returns coldly. Martha gapes, seemingly stricken by the absence of remorse. That's almost funny too. What do you think—that this was an accident? That I meant to give him a fond pat on the cheek and slipped? "I'll be waiting outside," she informs John quietly.

He nods, looking as grim as she's yet seen him.

That's when Richter starts laughing.

Beckett stops dead in her tracks. The sound is so unexpected, so out of place, that part of her worries she's hearing things. It's a wet and nasal thing owing to his injury, high-pitched and mocking. Her revolution where she stands seems to take forever, and it's underscored by that horrible unfurling of amusement.

John is staring at the guy like he's suddenly sprouted a second head.

Even Martha's expression of anger looks to have been shifting to surprise before it froze in transition.

Richter is grinning madly. His eyes, narrow and wet with involuntary tears, gleam with reflected light like those of jack-o-lantern where he leans to one side, half in the shadow cast by his high backed chair. "I was concerned," the spider hisses, hauling his form upright in the seat. "Nikki Heat would have done that sooner."

Nothing. Beckett's got nothing. She just stares.

"I worried that Richard had gotten you wrong in his characterization," Richter explains. "That you didn't have your fictional counterpart's inner fire." The hand at his nose lowers. He studies his red-stained fingers with seeming interest. "But you do. And her deadly right cross."

"John," Kate hears herself murmur. The name emerges hushed, shaky. It feels like gravity is loosening its grip. All is untethered from normalcy. She expects to see the furniture around them slowly begin to rise from the floor. Nothing actually does except for a deep foreboding in her belly that ascends into her chest. She was wrong about the man. Dead wrong.

"I see it," the deputy grunts in assurance.

"John," Richter mimics the tone subtly, and turns somewhat to look at the deputy. "I've been assaulted. I'd like to press charges." The hand upon the edge of his chair lifts enough to gesture vaguely towards the detective. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to arrest this young woman."

Montauk's imposing sentinel grimaces. His brows dip into a 'v' over his dark eyes. "You should keep up with your chores, Mr. Richter. I'm afraid I had dust in my eye when…whatever happened…happened. It looks to me like you fell and bumped your head."

The spider smiles briefly, but it's as frigid as the night pressed to the windows. "Martha?"

Oh no. As perturbed as she is, Beckett would never design to put the diva in the middle of this.

Martha's wide eyes blink, her expression falls. She looks at all of them, each in turn.

"She's a detective," Richter says, wincing to speak. "She serves the law. She's not above it." His brow creases with a shocking facsimile of emotion. "Please, help me. Don't let them do this to me again."

"Uhn," Martha issues, a soft grunt of ache, as if he'd struck her.

Beckett finds herself stepping back a pace, away from the spider. Jesus Christ. Two thoughts race one another through her mind. First: he's been pretending this whole damn time. Second: what else has he pretended about? "You know about me. Nikki Heat. Castle. You know."

But Richter has eyes only for the actress. "I'm asking you to help me, old friend. I know you couldn't before…when you had to fit in. But it's different now. You can be as kind as I always knew you really were."

Oh shit—what's this then? More ancient history returning from its grave, obviously.

"Oh my god," Martha grunts hoarsely. She shrinks away, half turning towards the chair behind her. A shaking hand steadies her there. "I—I…Get me out of here," she husks, suddenly finding her voice. The woman brushes past Beckett to leave.

Now you see him.

"Martha," Richter calls. The contrived emotion is gone. "You want to back me up on this. I promise you'll regret your silence this time."

"Shut up," Beckett thrusts, stepping between him and the older woman. "Martha, just go. Wait for us in the truck." Richter says nothing, but his eyes are on the woman behind Kate. After a long hesitation the detective hears faltering steps at the front door. It opens, closes, and then there are three.

"Pity," Richter comments, but he doesn't seem fazed. Blood runs from his nose unhindered. There's no effort made to stem the flow. "Still, there's physical evidence aplenty. That should be enough. Don't you two think so?"

"Maybe you should get cleaned up," John rumbles to Kate. He jerks his chin towards the partially open door of a half bath off the nearby kitchen.

"Conspiring now? Destroying evidence?" Richter flashes a smile. "My, how far the apple has fallen from the tree. I applaud you, John. Frank was so rigid by comparison. Forsaking your comfort zone to travel did wonders; you're a much more worldly man than your father was."

John eases closer, lowering until the men are eye-to-eye. "You slipped and fell. It could've been worse."

"Stop," Kate interjects quietly. "It's my responsibility. I appreciate your willingness to help. But…this town has enough goddamn secrets."

"Bullshit. Look at 'im. This is exactly what he wanted. He baited you—baited all of us."

"And who knows what else," she adds by way of agreement. "But I still did what I did."

"Oh, now, now," the spider chides lightly. "Don't be such sore losers."

"Why don't you just sit there and shut the fuck up," John suggests calmly, but his eyes flash with a level of menace usually reserved for the blind fury of nature—not for men. It's chilling enough given his intimidating presence. The neutral delivery just makes it more fearsome.

Still Richter is unfazed. "You're quite right. I'll do that, John. The more you open your mouth the better this gets."

Kate frowns at that, sees John do the same. The detective gets to the light of realization first. She jerks around, scouring the room with her hazel eyes. "Shit," she snaps. "Shit! You're—what? Recording all this?"

"HD audio and video," their host confirms. "It's amazing how far quality has come in home video equipment."

The deputy pales, blanches. He's royally fucked—we both are. Assault would have been bad, but maybe, just maybe survivable. John trying to help her by even alluding to covering it up though… It's unreal how fast this encounter has gone downhill. By their host's specific design no less, and that's the detail which kills her. It was wrong to have let everyone convince her that the mystery was done, that the pieces left over were benign. As soon as she'd heard about Richter's wife she should have stopped, backtracked, and gathered some intelligence before approaching the man. It's just…damn. He was supposed to be helping. This wasn't a case.

Now it might be—hers and Johns, with them as the suspects.

Anton's voice slips out like an unsheathed blade. "Are we pretty clear now on where things stand?"

John growls, "What do you want, you sonofabitch?"

A severe internal plunge assails Beckett. Oh. Oh no…

"Why, the same thing you do," Richter replies. His tone is almost pleasant now.

My god, what have I done?

"Which is what?"

"Ah. Ask your companion. She looks like she knows."

"He… He wants Rick to play," Kate issues hoarsely. "But he won't," she adds, lunging for the bastard, grabbing at his collars. The giant of a deputy intercepts her this time.

Richter smiles, wincing as he does so and watching as John wrestles her away from him. "He will. Thanks to you. It was Laura who awakened him to music, and then it was gone because of that foolish, ignorant Matthews boy. But Richard can save you from your own idiocy. He can save both your lives as you know them. Love has blossomed again, don't you see? The same strange, powerful kind he had with that girl. I knew when I read the newer books. He pours the same kind of life into those words as he once did his music, though books really do pale in comparison. They are only words after all. But he's ready for more than that now. Again. Like so many songs we've come back around for a second verse, a second chance. For that he'll play."

The night has gone from cold and uncomfortable to icy and terrifying. Nature has provided some surcease from the mounting snowfall, but the detective feels her misgivings piling up in its place. The three people stand in a close huddle now, gathered in the glow cast by the dome light of the cab of John's truck. Their eyes are fixed as the deputy wipes at Beckett's knuckles, swabbing the blood from her fist. One of her knuckles has lost a cap of flesh that hangs by a thread.

A rush of nausea roils within the detective. She has to forcibly keep herself still in order to stop from thrusting the wound into the snow and scraping at it with her sleeve. The idea of her blood mixing with that…creature's. Her shoulders spasm as she gags, but forces it away immediately.

John's eyes are the void between the stars, fathomless and unknowable when he pauses and looks up at her. But his briefly pursed lips lend them the sympathy that would otherwise be easy to miss.

"Does it hurt?" Martha asks softly.

Beckett huffs quietly, says, "Hell yes." Not as much as it ought to though. She's come out of this with nothing broken or even sprained, which is quite remarkable.

"Good. Learn from it," the actress admonishes, but a compassionate hand lifts to Beckett's shoulder.

They quiet again as John withdraws a plastic baggie from one of the compartments of his first responder kit. He bags the swabs he used, and scowls at their curious frowns. "It's the bastard's DNA."

"I hope you're not expecting to compare it to a sample from his wife's murder," Beckett replies with a glint of grim humor. "That happened way before those three letters mattered."

"Hopefully it'll never be needed. But if it ever is, we'll have it available."

"Someone might," the detective murmurs. "Sure as hell won't be either of us."

"I can't believe you hit him," John says by way of agreement.

"Me?" she growls. "I can't believe you offered to cover it up. 'Dust in my eyes'," she quotes with a snort.

"I didn't know he had his damn house wired," John returns in kind. His thick trunk expands with an angry exhalation. "He played us right from the start. Who knows how long he's been waiting for this night."

"It's not that I don't appreciate your back-up," she states. "But you should've played along for his benefit first, tried to mollify him or something."

"Bullshit." He winces somewhat, favors Martha with an uncomfortable, "Sorry, Miss Rodgers."

"No, it was bullshit," the actress agrees coldly. "My goodness. I can't believe I was so blind. He's changed." Beckett meets John's gaze. Neither says anything. The third notes it happen and sighs miserably. "Changed," she reconsiders aloud, "or always was very well hidden."

"Maybe it was different once," John rumbles, using his teeth to tear open an alcohol wipe. "But coming to Montauk ruined that. My father said it himself: that man is nothing more than a center-piece for Mrs. Haverstock's dinner conversation. He thinks he's escaped back into privilege by coming here. But he's just inserted himself into a different kind of cage."

Beckett winces, hissing softly as John stoically cleans her scrape. "Jesus. Easy."

"Sissy."

Kate arches an eyebrow and favors the imposing man with a faint smirk. The night's gone to shit in the worst possible way. An uncertain future looms somewhere among the darkness in the east, waiting for the sun and the new day before it pounces on them all. Maybe this is the last time in a good long while she'll have a reason to manage even a partial smile. The dark-haired woman grabs ahold of it while she can.

"The more I hear about your father's opinion of us all," Martha huffs.

"He didn't judge, Miss Rodgers. That wasn't his job. But it was his duty to look. To see."

"Yes, yes. I respect the distinction. Speaking of which… Don't you listen to that beast in there, John Autry. I see a great deal of your father in you. He was always very proud, and with good reason."

They fall silent again, merely watching as John deftly secures the gauze pad over Beckett's knuckles with an ace bandage. It winds around and around, a little snug for her liking, but she flexes afterward without much difficulty. It doesn't feel like it's effecting her circulation any.

"You've got a healer's touch," Kate remarks, because she needs to give him something. The guy went to bat for her in a shocking way. But they both struck out hard.

John offers a brief, wan smile. "Think I'm still young enough for medical school?"

Martha turns and takes a few steps away into some semblance of privacy. A stealthy sniff of grief arises, and Beckett swallows thickly, feeling wholly up to the task of making that a duet. Headlights coming down the road forestall that. She turns along with John to squint in the glare as the vehicle slows and parks a short distance behind the F-150. When the beams cut out the nearby streetlight reveals it to be Castle's car.

"Oh shit," Beckett hisses, hurrying towards him. She didn't call him. None of them did. That means Richter must have. How the hell does he know your phone number? "Don't you dare!" she snarls immediately as the author strides towards them. "Get back in that car and get the hell out of here, Castle!"

"Hmph," the man simpers. "It's nice to see you too." Her heart wrenches somewhat to see he's carrying a pair of travel mugs wafting steam. Seriously? His gaze locks on her freshly bandaged right hand while a subtle shift of concern falls into place. "Are you okay?"

It takes her a second to find her voice. "I-I'm fine. I'll be even better when you turn around and go home."

Castle sidesteps around her with a noncommittal sound and approaches the truck. "John. Mother." He holds out one of the mugs to the deputy. "It's decaf."

"Don't need any more help losing sleep tonight," John confirms, accepting the offering. "Thank you."

"Mother, I made you some as well, but left it with your car, which should be along—oh, that's him now." Another set of headlights turns onto the lane from up the block. It eases down towards them.

"Castle," Beckett hisses, tugging at his right arm to make him face her.

"Yes, okay," he drones with seemingly amused placation. "Here's yours." Beckett swats the damn thing out of his hand. The mug falls into the snowy front yard where the cover pops off. Creamy coffee splashes out across the snow in a steaming gush. "You wanted regular even this late in the day, hmm? I might've known." The walls are up. He's refusing to let her see. This is normal Rick Castle, a little goofy and mocking, lighthearted and unfazed by the turning darkness of the earth.

"Please don't do this," she pleads softly. Simply putting it into words makes her heart feel like it is being squeezed by an unseen force within her chest. "Don't shut me out now. And don't go in there."

"The first will never happen," he says with a strained, lop-sided smile. "You know better now. There's no surer key to me than the knowledge you've been acquiring tonight, Kate. But as to the second…you must know I have to." The curve to his lips vanishes suddenly, but he salvages the expression just as quickly. "John, I'm so sorry to have put you in this position."

"You think anyone puts me where I don't wanna go, Rick?"

You called him Rick, part of the detective notes with some sadness. This long day is changing things for everyone involved.

"Tonight I do, yes." The deputy's feigned bravado falls down around him like the recent snow at their feet. He's younger than Castle, and for the first time he broadcasts an air of uncertainty and apprehension which makes it evident. His career is on the line, and he needs help, but he'll never ask for it under circumstances such as these. "Would you help my mother to her car, please? I might need one more thing after that too if you're up for it. But I would certainly understand if you've had enough for one evening."

"I'm here 'til it's done," the other replies firmly, and steps away to go and greet the driver.

"Richard," Martha issues. "I'm coming with you."

Castle regards her for several mute seconds. There's so much known and more that is not swirling between mother and son. It's like a charge building up in the air, and it hovers there among them like the fading echo of an ardent benediction. At length the writer says, "He won't have it, Mother."

"To hell with what he'll have or not!' the woman snaps viciously.

"You really don't see it, do you? This is his final revenge. For tonight, sure, but also…more than that. Your friends brought him here to be their new toy for the summer. Music was all he knew. No one else is to blame for him losing it. But your buddies—they just couldn't resist their macabre curiosity. They bought him: a grieving murderer tamed by wild regret and financial desperation. Gertrude may have been the one to bring him here, but tell me, Mother—did the rest of you talk about him often? Did you all wonder aloud together, muse about his misdeeds? Didn't everyone enjoy the stir the old widow caused?"

"R-Richard," Martha stuttered. She looks ashen. And guilty. "You—don't say such things to me!"

"No, I don't. I didn't. But I should've, because even as a child I knew there was something wrong."

"That man was given a home—a new life. He wanted for nothing."

"He was a bug trapped under a very pretty jar, gawked at by overgrown kids with too much money and not enough decency." Castle's expression eased to a neutral, icy demeanor. "Don't get wrong: I've long since come to understand the position you were in, how you couldn't afford to make waves and jeopardize your career."

"I couldn't! These people…have connections. It would have been suicide for my career."

"I know."

"So…you'll take me with you then. You can't play for him, Richard! You can't play for him and…not me."

"Oh my God," Beckett blurts. Her cheeks actually tingle from the swiftness of her sudden pallor. "Martha…are you kidding me?" The actress has the grace to look ashamed, but at the same time there's obviously an undeniable, powerful yearning at work within her. Even in her line of work, the younger has rarely seen such deep conflict laid so painfully bare. Castle's playing must be all they've said and more for his mother to need to hear it again so badly. Doubtless it's about much more than just the music. Still. This isn't the time to hear it—it's so…wrong to even want to hear it now. Her voice is taut, but she manages to conceal the undercurrent of anger. "You should go back to the city before the weather makes that impossible."

"Go ahead," Rick adds in a rumble of quiet agreement.

"I can't. I can't just go. I-I'll stand outside!"

"Martha," Kate hisses, advancing on the woman. She grasps her arms. "Get in that fucking car!"

"You don't understand," she moans, stabbing Beckett with the depths of her grief. "You don't."

"No," the other agrees hoarsely. "You're right. I know that's true, but this isn't the time. My god. Is that how you want to hear your son play again? When he's being forced into it? You want to be there watching him while that fucking animal is right there beside him? Is that really what you want?"

"It's not what I want," the older cries, pushing Kate away. Her eyes flick to her son as if seeking haven there. But whatever she sees—or doesn't see—straightens her spine into a rigid line. The actress slowly schools her features and wipes crisply at the corners of her blue eyes. Without another word she moves past Kate. Martha pauses at her son's side, her hard-fought poise seeming to tremble there. "Nothing's been the same since that morning on the shore. All I want—all I ever wanted—was for you to come home. All of you—home, once and for all."

Castle moistens his lips, dips his head in a slow, single nod of understanding.

Martha resumes walking to the car. She doesn't look back.

"I wasn't trying to make her feel bad," Kate beseeches softly. "I understand—

"You don't, Kate." There's an edge of compassion which softens his rebuke. "And that's okay. But you really don't. She's the one who had to pick up the pieces. You've really only seen the end result. It took a lifetime to get here. So just…give her time. I know she'll understand. She'll be glad she wasn't in there."

Kate eases closer, reaches for both of his hands. They're so warm compared to hers. "Is there anything I can say or do that'll make you reconsider? Because you just have to name it. John and I—we can handle the consequences. You don't have to do this."

"Go for a drive," he replies. "Richter doesn't want anyone else here. He'll give me the discs from the recording equipment, and won't press charges. But you all have to leave. That's the deal. All I need is seven minutes."

It's an oddly specific number. "Seven?"

"Give or take," Castle confirms. "He'll want Moonlight Sonata—the first one he taught me."

First. …last to first, first to last, Kate thinks, from the poem. She had assumed it was a play on words to indicate something cyclical. He must have meant the first song to last as an accomplishment in terms of applying his gift to something real-world and tangible.

"Don't do it," she protests. "I'm asking you not to. For me. If there ever comes a time when you're ready to play again, Rick, I don't want to be sitting there thinking about the last time you did. Tonight. That's what he wants! To tarnish what you have because his gift is gone. He can't stand you having what he doesn't."

Castle sighs, but turns somewhat to fully face her. Both large hands rise to her shoulders, squeeze warmly, and then lift to cup her face. He's so calm. It's eerie. "That's not what's happening here, Beckett."

"It is! I saw him in there. He's a monster."

"Oh yes. But he's also…a very tired one."

They stare at one another, neither backing down. It's less common for him not to. Kate's resolve wavers in the face of his strange stoicism. She frowns at the nearby house. "He planned this, Rick. He's been waiting."

"Yes," the mystery-writer murmurs again. He smiles sadly. "Look, it's not my story to tell. Go with John now, please."

"Rick…"

"Seven minutes," he interrupts, and drifts back a pace, looking grim and resolved. He turns away before she can say anything more and proceeds to the door. She can't do anything, only watch as he slips into the dimness of the spider's lair.

A/N: I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to everyone this time around. Your observations deserve the reply. They make telling this story so much more fun as a shared experience. For now the update itself must speak to my gratitude. As to that, it's one I've wrestled with. It's not precisely what I had in mind, but dithering has offered no epiphanies, so here we are. There are unanswered questions (like why Beckett would let herself hit Anton) which seem to be gathering, perhaps appropriately, to be addressed in the closing chapters. But for now I'm pleased to note people aren't shocked that Beckett's first impression of Anton was mistaken, which is really nothing more than a concise reflection of the show itself; the way they have to work gradually towards the truth. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this despite some lack of clarity.