Forty-Seven: Chapter 4
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Still Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 - at the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn
Richard Castle walks briskly under the tall, cathedral-like spires into the fresh afternoon air of the cemetery. He knows exactly where he is going. Turns out, he has been here many times. The sprawling four hundred-plus acres of greenery and stone and marble open before him. He finds himself calming down somewhat, as he walks farther and farther into the beautiful silence. It has become a comforting place for him, and he is somewhat surprised that this is the safe haven, the cave he has unconsciously chosen.
Ten minutes later, walking briskly, he makes a right turn, and finds himself in front of the small plot. It is crowded, as he remembers, all but pinned in by closely distributed headstones all around him. He gazes ahead, roughly five or six headstones down the current row, where a freshly dug hole awaits its patron. The area is roped off, and Castle solemnly considers the silent gathering that will, no doubt, be convening over there within a few hours. He imagines the funeral that is likely going on right now. Or perhaps the entourage is already on their way here to cemetery, lights on, moving slowly through the city, or one of many the boroughs close by.
Snapping his mind back to the present, he glances down at the small, familiar stone grave marker, and the phrase he has come to trust regarding the woman he has chased for these almost four years.
Vincit omnia veritas.
Truth conquers all things.
He can't help but release a small, mournful chuckle at the sheer irony of the situation. Here he stands at the grave, viewing words that now all but mock his futile attempts of the past few years. He closes his eyes, not willing to see the taunting phrase any more. It's a full minute later when he opens his eyes again.
"Truth conquers all things," he mutters. "Yeah, right."
He touches the raised letters that softly whisper her name to the surrounding trees and gently blowing leaves. He glances at the myriad of headstones that surround him. Johanna is buried in a crowded area, but at least she isn't alone.
"I'm sorry, Johanna," he begins, talking clearly and now kneeling in front of the headstone. "I can't do this anymore. I know I promised you I would wait for her. I know I told you that I'd take care of her. But that was only because I really thought that's what she wanted, too. I thought that was the end game."
He picks a couple of dead flowers, pulling them out and tossing them away from her grave area.
"It's how I always wrote it. How I always wrote us. How I always saw it. Not as an ending, but as a beginning. Our beginning."
He gazes out at the adjacent headstone, then back to Johanna's.
"Only there is no beginning."
A single, angry tear slides down his cheek. It's not a tear of sadness, or regret, or remorse. No, it is pure fury that fuels the single salty flow that now hangs off his chin, threatening to water the flowers below. It doesn't break him. It strengthens him, it energizes him.
"She will be fine, Johanna," he tells her. "She is strong. I thought she needed me. Like I needed her. I was wrong. She will be just fine."
Behind him, her voice is strong, startling him to his feet.
"You're wrong, Castle."
He turns and sees her. He tries – horribly unsuccessfully – to hide his emotions. She can see the hurt and the fury in his eyes, warring with one another. It's a picture she isn't proud of, and one she won't soon forget.
"How?" Kate asks. "How . . . who? What are you doing here, Castle?"
"I think that's kind of obvious," he replies, his voice stronger than he would have thought.
"How?" she manages again. How did he know about this? How did he know where her mother was buried? They've never – never – talked about this.
"Your father," he replies again. "He told me where she was buried."
"When?" she asks, her voice soft, as she debates whether she should feel betrayed that her father would share this information with him. The voice inside her head slams her back to reality.
"This place isn't about you, Kate."
"A couple of years ago," he answers, now turning away from her and kneeling back at the grave. "When we killed Coonan."
The memories flash quickly before both of them, playing out on a large IMAX screen in vivid, multidimensional colors. The gunshot drops Dick Coonan quickly, as he collapses onto the precinct floor. Kate is right there, immediately, dropping next to him, watching him bleed out, watching his eyes fizzle for an instant as life strains and strains, before finally breaking free from his body.
Castle's voice snaps both of them back to the present.
"The next day, that was when I met Johanna here," he tells her. He gazes back at the headstone, a strange and beautiful smile on his face. Only for an instant, and then it is gone.
"I came here that first day to apologize," he continues, as his eyes glaze for a moment. Kate Beckett realizes that he is no longer even aware of her presence.
Just over two years ago, in January of 2010
He kneels in front of the grave, staring at the headstone. His Latin is a bit rusty, but he can make out the general meaning of the phrase on the stone in front of him. It means truth conquers all, truth wins in the end. He smiles, nodding his head in approval.
"Hello Johanna," he begins, offering a quick glance around. Talking to a grave marker, to a dead person – well, there is a first time for everything.
"You don't know me," he continues, before smiling, stopping himself. "Well, actually, you do know me, I'm sure. I'm sure you're looking down here, watching your little girl. Of course, she's not a little girl anymore. She's a beautiful woman. Smart, successful. But you know this already. You probably also saw that we got your killer. Finally. He's dead. Kate shot him. Justice was served. For him at least."
He brushes a couple of dying stems out of the way, and cleans the small mess he has made.
"But we still don't know who was behind it all - who put him up to it. And now that he is dead, well, we probably never will," he says, his eyes downcast.
"We were so close, Johanna. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. We will keep looking though, I promise you. The man – or woman – who ordered your . . . who gave Coonan the order, that person is still out there. And Kate and I will keep looking. We won't stop. And I will watch over her. I will take care of her, I promise you. I will do everything in my power to keep her safe . . . and to make her happy.
He stands, brushing the dirt and leaves off his knees on his pants. He walks away, taking only a few steps before turning back, smiling.
"But you do know that's not the easiest job in the world, right?"
Back to the present, Tuesday Afternoon, March 27, 2012 - at the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn
Castle glances over at Kate, who is now kneeling next to him in front of her mother's grave. She is staring blankly at the words on the stone.
"I told her we had gotten Coonan, but the big fish was still out there. I've come back to talk to her many times since then," he admits.
"How many times?" she asks, her voice still small and soft.
"Oh, I don't know. Fifteen, twenty maybe."
"And you kept this from me?" she replies, her voice slightly rising. It is yet another mistake she immediately regrets this afternoon.
"You are not going to actually sit there and lecture me about secrets," he grouses, his tone far harsher than he intends. "I will not allow it."