Chapter 7

The bus journey was not pleasant. Beckett was cramped into a window seat next to a woman with what seemed like two dozen bags, all of which she wanted to hold on to rather than place in the rack. They jabbed into Beckett's ribs, luckily on the unscarred side, and severely tested her patience. Fortunately, closing her eyes meant that the woman didn't talk. She had looked as if she might, and strangulation was not an acceptable activity on a bus. Three painful hours later, she arrived at the Port Authority Terminal, staggered off the bus aching in every inch, and collected a cab home.

Her apartment was slightly musty, unlived in for almost two months. Still, it was her home, and despite everything, she relaxed infinitesimally as she put her bag down. She ran herself a hot bath, added an immense dose of muscle relaxant, creaked her way into it, and stayed there until the water cooled to tepid, after which, though it was barely past nine, she went to bed and plunged into heavy, nightmare-ridden sleep.

In the morning, rather earlier than she would have liked, Beckett woke to a bright Manhattan morning. It was going to be hot. She found a light cotton dress and some flat sandals, and considered the day ahead, taking into account her cast. More importantly, she took into account the minor little detail that if she turned up at the precinct while still on medical leave she would be on the wrong end of the new boss's temper, whoever the new boss might be.

Instead, she switched her phone back on, deleted every communication from her father, and sent a text to both Ryan and Espo, simply stating that she was back in town. Then, it being almost up to a civilised hour, she tapped Lanie's number.

"Kate?"

"Hey, Lanie."

"Hey, Lanie? About damn time. Where you been, girl?"

"Upstate. Dad's cabin."

"What's it like up there?"

"I'm back in town," Beckett said, rather defensively, without answering the question. "Thought I'd call you."

"Sure you should. And then you can call your boy and let him know you're home."

Light abruptly dawned on Lanie.

"Hang on. What the hell you doing home already? You're supposed to be convalescing with your dad in the fresh air, not choking your abused lungs out here. Why're you back here? You get your ass over to my morgue right this minute and explain." She paused. "And take a goddamn cab, too. If I find you've been on the subway I'll put you back in the ICU in restraints."

"Put the coffee on, then, Lanie, and stop bitching at me." But Beckett was laughing as she said it. Lanie was a breath of rousingly fresh air – and wasn't treating her like spun glass with a side order of fragility.

"You don't get coffee, girlfriend, till I see you with my own eyes."

"On the way."

Beckett cut the call, picked up her purse, and decamped for the morgue without further ado.

"What the freakin' hell did you do?" Lanie screeched at full, piercing volume when she glimpsed the cast. "You didn't have that when you left!"

"Inside voice," Beckett smirked.

Lanie made an indeterminately furious noise. "You explain right freakin' now!"

"I fell."

Lanie regarded her beadily, swiftly moving up the intensity levels to laser glare.

"Okay, okay," Beckett grumped. "I slipped on the steps and fell down them."

"How many steps?"

"Five. Look, it was weeks ago."

"How many?"

"Five." Lanie drilled her with the glare. "Oh-kay. Four and a bit."

"Where's the sling?"

"Lanie, leave it. They said I only needed it for three weeks."

Lanie totally ignored that.

"Sling. Where? Or I put one on you like you were five – though five year olds are more sensible."

"Back in the apartment. I don't need it."

Lanie made a sound like a stooping falcon, grabbed a sling, and forcibly attired Beckett in it. "That's better. And don't you dare take it off again till the cast is off." She glared some more, for good measure. Beckett glared back, which had no effect at all. "Now that's done, why're you back here? Does Castle know? Do the boys know? Why'd your dad let you home alone?"

"Are you going to let me answer or just keep interrogating? We can find you a role as a uniform if you want to be a detective."

"Why are you here?"

"I missed Manhattan," Beckett said flippantly.

"Yeah, right. Sweltering heat, getting stuck to the sidewalk and sky high humidity. Why. Are. You. Here?"

Beckett didn't answer. Lanie watched her fingers clench and unclench, twine and untwine.

"I just am. Okay?"

That was not a question requiring an answer. Lanie made a your-funeral gesture, and dropped the point. That point. "So what about Writer-Boy? Where's he?"

"Hamptons."

"You telling me he's not already on his way back?"

"He doesn't know I'm here."

Lanie's screech of disgust reached window-breaking intensity. "Tell me you've spoken to him since you left."

"Yeah."

"Well chalk one up for sense. Finally. So why doesn't he know you're back? And why aren't you off to the Hamptons right now?"

"Can't drive. Don't know where I'm going."

"And? That's not all of it."

"Don't want told off," Beckett muttered blackly.

"I don't think telling off is what he wants to do."

"Sez you. That's exactly what he did when he heard about the arm. You mother-henning is bad enough."

Lanie clucked, which rather proved the point. "If you don't wanna talk to him, just text."

Beckett made a school-refusing toddler face.

"You are dumb, girlfriend."

"You promised me coffee and I don't see any."

Lanie was well-versed in the Kate-evasive-manoeuvre mode, and didn't push the point. She'd just deal with it another way. Kate was not the only person in the room with Castle's number.

"How many have you had already?"

"One." Lanie looked sceptical. "Just one. But if I don't get another one soon, I might have to commit murder."

"That's not subtle." Beckett raised her brows. "Okay. Let's have coffee."

Out on the decking, contemplating coffee, a small but tempting pastry, and the pool, Castle considered his phone, which now had six missed calls from the same, still unknown, number. Since it wasn't Alexis, Beckett, his mother, Gina or Paula – in that order –he wasn't interested by it. The sun was warm, the day was edging towards lunchtime, and his story was just about squeezing out the irritation and hurt that Beckett still wasn't talking to him.

He was, however, definitely intrigued when Lanie's number popped up.

"Hey, Lanie," he said happily. "What brings you to my humble i-Phone?"

"Ha! Humble? You? Mr Hi-Tech-look-at-my-thousand-dollar-phone with all the extras?"

"That's not fair, Lanie."

"I notice you're not saying it's not true."

"That's not true, Lanie," Castle said. It wasn't. It had cost marginally less.

"Hmm," she hummed, with a disturbing edge of cynical disbelief.

"Anyway, why did you call? Nice new body? You want me to host a party? I'm not inviting Perlmutter."

"Nope. Kate showed up this morning."

Castle knocked his coffee all over his pastry. "What?"

"She called. Then she came to the morgue."

"What?"

"Kate is in Manhattan," Lanie pronounced very, very slowly. "With a broken arm in a cast and – until I put it on her" – Castle spluttered – "no sling."

"Manhattan? She was upstate."

"When did you last speak to her?

"A couple of days ago."

The tenor of the silence spoke volumes.

"Spit it out, Lanie. I know you're thinking something, so you might as well say it before you get indigestion from swallowing it down."

"Why's she suddenly not talking to you?"

Lanie's phrasing just about stopped Castle's annoyance. It was nice that Lanie – for once – didn't automatically blame him. On the other hand, he didn't think that would last past the first five seconds of the truth.

"Ask her."

"I did. Now I'm asking you."

"Something was wrong with her dad. She wouldn't talk about it, and I got mad."

He would have sworn he could hear Lanie roll her eyes. "Like Kate ever talks. She didn't tell me why she's back either. And I've been friends with her a lot longer than you've been around, Writer-Boy."

"So?"

"So, if you're waiting for her to call you, you'll wait a while."

"I can wait," Castle said stubbornly. "I'm not running after her begging for explanations."

"Not saying you should. Just… if she doesn't wanna talk, don't push her." There was an oddly-flavoured pause. "I tried, once. It didn't exactly work out well."

"Mmm?" Castle murmured, intrigued again despite himself.

"Let's just say that girl is more stubborn than an army of mules."

"When was that?" Castle suddenly asked.

"While ago. Um… about eight, nine years? Doesn't matter. Kate's as stubborn as a rock. Up to you what you do. I'm staying well out of it."

"Right."

"Anyway, I got corpses to chop. Kate's in Manhattan. Up to you what you do about that."

"Mm. Thanks, Lanie."

"Seeya."

Lanie put the phone down with a sense of considerable satisfaction. Then she played back the conversation. Then she regarded her beaten-up corpse with some concern.

"Hey," she said to it. "Looks like my girl's got problems with her dad again. Guess I'd better be ready with the chocolate." And the rest, she thought to herself. Kate had barely come through the last time round. On the other hand, last time round there hadn't been one large Writer-Boy Richard Castle, ready and all-too-willing to provide Kate with – um – consolation. If Kate got her head out of her ass, that was. Which Lanie was sure she could – um – facilitate.

Kate wandered home, in order to meet her goal of extending her still-limited fitness, but feeling better for seeing Lanie, even if Lanie was totally over the top about her arm. She ignored the cheeps of her phone, and then deleted the next round of calls from her father. She knew how that went. He begged and pleaded. She'd learned to block it out, until he was dry.

She still kept looking at her phone. That had nothing to do with her father, but it did have plenty to do with whether she had received anything at all from Castle. She hadn't. She hadn't heard anything from him since he'd said I just want you to behave like you actually want a relationship. And then: if you think you can ever manage to talk, call.

And he'd really meant it. He wouldn't call her. If she wanted to talk to him… she had to call. But calling meant explaining. Last time…

Last time, she'd almost lost her second-oldest friend over not explaining. And there but for the grace of God and O'Leary's infinite tolerance she'd have lost her oldest friend too.

There was an idea. O'Leary. He'd help her see straight. She tapped out a text, and then treated herself to a really good coffee and a delicious sfogliatella, both of which she had purchased on the way home. Then she performed her other exercises, and on finding, quite delighted, that she wasn't utterly exhausted, attempted a few very light yoga asanas.

She was interrupted in a careful tree pose – with one arm firmly in its sling to avoid the wrath of Lanie – by the cheerful bleep of a text arriving. Investigation proved it to be O'Leary, who announced – without discussion, in the way that mountains didn't discuss anything – that he would drop by at shift end. She felt better already. O'Leary's hayseed immensity and gentle-giant demeanour was always reassuring.

Early in the evening, Beckett's door was rapped. She opened it to find the sidewalk-blocking width and skyscraper height of O'Leary, smiling happily. Smiling lasted just as long as it took him to notice the cast on her arm, when his hedgerow brows wriggled into a frown.

"What'cha been doin' there?" he emitted in a muted roar.

"Hey, Beckett. How have you been? All healed up and ready to work?" she snipped.

"Aw, c'mon. You were s'posed to get better, not hurt yourself more."

He took two long strides inside the apartment, pushed the door shut behind him, and wrapped Beckett into a bear-hug. He was the only work-related person (apart from Castle, a little voice niggled) that she'd allow to hug her. Ever. (Castle wasn't work, the little voice niggled some more. Castle-hugs would be marvellous. She ignored it.)

"Now, what's all this? Thought you were stayin' out in the boonies till your medical leave was up?" He regarded her carefully. "You don't look so good. Wanna talk, or wanna get takeout an' beer an' catch up on the gossip?"

"Dad's drinking again," she said flatly.

O'Leary's face gaped. "Say what?" he gasped. "Drinkin'? Why?"

Beckett controlled her face – but not well enough.

"Oh," he followed, all hayseed dropped. "Yeah. Right. Bit much of a shock for him?"

"I guess. And then I fell" – she waggled the cast – "and…"

"Aw, Beckett. 'Tain't your fault." He patted her consolingly; possibly the only person in the whole wide world who could get away with that. Of course, that was because even being shot point blank with an M-15 wouldn't have affected him.

"I know that. But… I couldn't stay and watch him lie. And then not lie. And then the rest of it. Again."

"I get that." He paused. "But what I don't quite get" – Beckett looked questioningly at him – "is how come I'm here, an' that writer pal of yours ain't. Shouldn't you be callin' him?"

She didn't answer.

"Beckett, what've you done?" This time hung on the air.

"Why are you blaming me?" she muttered.

"Because I know you?" O'Leary grinned. "An' because you're here an' – even though I been askin' for months – you haven't introduced me to him. Y'know, 'tain't fair. I'm a fan an' you won't even get me a signed copy. You're s'posed to be my pal."

"I am your pal!" she said indignantly. "Who was it listened to you mooning over Pete for three months before you asked him on a date?"

"Who was it made me eat somethin' with so much garlic the sidewalk melted when I breathed?"

"That was my best shashlik!"

"You never told me you were that scared of vampires."

"I am not! There's no such thing as vampires."

"Ohhkaaaay. An' seems to me that there's no such thing as this writer pal of yours either, since you ain't sharin'."

"He exists all right. He exists to annoy me."

"Really? Then why you lookin' all miserable?"

Beckett hunched her shoulders.

"Talk to the guy. An' if he don't treat you good, I'll arrest him for you." She raised a wan smile. "C'mon. What's up?"

"Don't-want-to-mention-Dad," she mumbled. "He said don't call if you won't talk."

"You just told me," O'Leary pointed out, unanswerably. "An' it's clear to a blind man at midnight that you're sweet on him, so just talk. Iffen he's as keen on you as I think he is – an' I heard about that show in the cemetery – it'll work out."

He handed her the phone.

"Huh?"

"Just do it. An' if he's mean to you, I'll go round an' sort it out."

"You can't. He's not in Manhattan."

"I c'n get provisioned for an expedition. I guess I can manage to go outside the city if it's not too far."

"The Hamptons. Don't know where."

"Mm. Don't that need a passport?"

Beckett laughed, which O'Leary heard with considerable relief.

"Now," he said happily, "you go call your boy, an' I'll just call the pizza place."

"You're a big bully." She made no move to dial.

"Yep. I'm the biggest bully around. I practice on the grizzlies in the Zoo. Now go make that call, before I do."

"No way! You get your oversize paws off my phone."

"Go call, then."

O'Leary was quietly implacable. He thought that Beckett would be better for some…um, what was the word… physical comfort, of a sort he was neither inclined nor able to provide. He pushed her gently (she was already in plaster: more wouldn't help, he thought) off the couch towards her bedroom, and pulled out his own phone to order pizza.

Beckett gazed at the screen of her phone and Castle's number with more trepidation than delight. She took a deep breath, and tapped.

The call went to voicemail. She didn't leave a message. It wasn't the sort of subject for leaving messages.

"Well?" O'Leary enquired, stretched out to waaaaalllll?

"No answer."

"You tried. 'S all you needed to do."

The door sounded with pizza, and O'Leary dropped the conversation in favour of precinct gossip from Central Park and anywhere else his enormous network of friends, acquaintances, cronies and, most likely, grizzly bears might have told him about.

The evening drew to a comfortable close.

"Now, you take care of yourself. I guess the team'll be round pretty soon. You c'n let Espo do your cookin'."

"Not if I want to survive, I won't. Ryan makes a mean lasagne, but Espo can't make a taco without a food truck."

O'Leary chortled and took his leave.

As soon as he got out the door he grinned evilly at his phone, on which he had carefully installed the phone number of one Richard Castle, writer. He wouldn't do anything with it just yet. But if nothing had happened in a couple of days, well, mebbe a little trip out of the city would just suit him. He loved visiting faraway places, such as Queens, or the Bronx. He'd even been to Philadelphia, once, but the food was a bit too foreign for him.

Beckett tidied up, blessed her small dishwasher, which meant that there was no risk to her cast (she couldn't face Lanie's recriminations if she had to have it redone), and settled down to read. Simply seeing O'Leary had left her comforted: his undemandingly enormous presence and cop background restoring her sense of reality. When she got around to checking her phone, she found a message from Espo (which meant from both of the boys) wondering why she hadn't hauled her ass (lazy was strongly implied) over to the Twelfth to come see them and preferably do a bit of work.

She smirked nastily at it and composed a return text, largely consisting of a number of questions around their competence if they needed a half-healed invalid who wasn't even allowed inside the front door for another six weeks minimum – and then only to requalify and be psych tested first.

She supposed that she ought to try calling Castle again, though she couldn't really say she was enthusiastic. Mostly, she was unenthusiastic because she thought he would start trying to tell her off again, and the last thing she wanted to do with him was argue. Still, she could text him. That would do. Tell him she was back in Manhattan. Time enough for conversations tomorrow.

Back at my own place, she tapped. Lanie's keeping me in order. B.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated.

Reviews were broken earlier, which usually means we've got a couple of days of on-off coming. Answers will be given as soon as reviews work, should they go off again.