The laptop lid clanked quietly, and with his hands behind his head, Castle leaned back in his chair. His face creased at first, then took on an indescribably martyred expression: this is a dead end, a fiasco, and it was created by his own hands. His hero, his breadwinner, his "child" - Derek Storm - had fallen at the hands of his own creator, however sad and predictable that might sound. Because there was a surfeit of his exploits, his charisma, his brain twists and his constant habit of flaunting himself above everyone else. And at some point it had to end, but, hand on heart, Castle delayed the moment of farewell, until he realized that that's it, there's nowhere else to go. And here it is, his last book, is not badly dispersed in showrooms, but, except for mercantile, this process does not make any sense. Already tomorrow, no - today - the famous writer Richard Castle falls out in circulation. Not out, but exactly fall out, and his future looks very vague, if not to say more ... And by the way, what time is it? He's supposed to show up at Gina's party tonight, with his mom and Alexis, but it's the kind of party he doesn't want to go to. He doesn't want to answer uncomfortable questions about the last book, he doesn't want to make empty promises about the next one, and he doesn't want to hear ghostly hints of impending failure, but he has to be at the damn party, and only a universal weather shift can stop him from going. Or some unforeseen situation will arise that he will definitely get caught up in...
The laptop beeped softly, announcing the latest mail, but Castle was in no hurry to open it. Surely, on a specially created account, came another fan mail, predictable and quietly hated, which he was tired of sending to the trash. All those unnecessary declarations of love, empty praise and unnecessary oaths, silly pictures and even threats of harm had long since evoked no emotion from Castle other than a wry, dismissive smirk. Of course, he didn't ignore the fans completely, and on the contrary, he tried to answer the most interesting and informative letters, but it took a lot of patience, a lot of free time and alcohol to flip through all of them. And, after some thought, Castle decided not to change himself. The laptop was nestled on the countertop, and its owner went to the kitchen, to "mock" the bacon and omelet.
Slightly warmed up by a portion of whiskey, Castle again plopped down in his favorite chair: it was a little less than four hours before the party started. In any case, the atmosphere of the gathering would be strikingly different from the current routine (though there was no telling what was worse!), and, giving the Lord a prayerful message, Castle opened the list of incoming letters. Here is an invitation to the college, on the evening of the meeting; here are several letters from Paula; here are pictures with the "charms" of fans of the ardent, and here on the letter entitled banal seemingly trivial phrase "Do not delete this letter! You'll be interested!" Rick held his gaze: as it turned out, the letter contained a link to a video, which, as a splash screen, was embedded with a photo of the cover of one of his earliest and least successful books. And when the video started, Rick raised his eyebrows in amazement: first there was a white screen with some idiotic, scary-looking faces, then someone invisible, holding his book in front of the lens, was walking somewhere, crunching stones and keeping silent. When the book was put away a few minutes later, Rick saw a fire blazing merrily, with someone sitting to the right of it, but whether it was a man or a woman was unclear: the camera switched to a bright orange torch, whose tongues licked greedily not only at the wooden fragments, but also at the books, many books, with familiar pictures on the back. Yes, they were his volumes, his works, which someone was purposefully burning, and when someone's hoarse, uncertain voice sounded, Castle even moved forward: they were reading out a passage from this very book, where one of his key characters was dying. And when the fate of the hero was sealed, the quotation was stopped, and the book, whirling a whole sheaf of sparks, flew into the fire. And frowning Castle, feeling an unpleasant chill under his heart, uninterruptedly watched as the creation of his hands turned into ashes, and someone invisible, a thin metal bar, picked up and flipped cheerfully flaring leaves, turning them into decay. And then, against the dark background, an inscription appeared:
"Are you wondering, Mr. Castle, what this is all about? I think so, for writers love intrigue, and when you arrive at the address in the letter, there may be more questions. And who knows if it won't help you in the future. For starters, cancel the party for tonight so you don't miss your chance! And yes, Mr. Castle, I'm not saying goodbye... "
He'd jumped out of the loft after he'd sent his daughter a text: of course, he'd been driven by a sudden burst of interest. Yes, a lot of assholes had written to him in his career, but Rick couldn't remember anyone maliciously burning his books. No, one lunatic had tried to set fire to his loft, but since that one had been sent to the clinic, Castle had never heard from him again. So, despite the questionable background of his appearance at the meeting place and possible negative consequences, Castle could not refuse such an offer. Yes, it was dangerous, to go into the unknown blindly, but the one who for some reason decided to play with him, it is unlikely to have intended a single party. And the stranger knew (or guessed!) exactly how to intrigue a writer impoverished for ideas.
By the way, Castle knew something about the rendezvous point. Ever since an underground casino had been smashed in that building, the structure had fallen into disrepair. The nominal owners had survived bankruptcy and prison, while the real owners remained in the shadows. And "thanks" to the public outcry, it was easier to abandon the building than to restore it. So it stood for many years, gloomy, unsightly and mysterious, with empty, horrible window cavities and partially existing roof. And even in the summertime of the afternoon, he should have been wary, but Castle somehow believed in luck. It would be good if it was his finest hour, and he could deal with the trouble himself somehow...
The cab dropped him off on a nearby street, not wanting to go any closer; to get to the address he had to first slip through an alleyway between the guesthouses, then get to the corner of the old block, and then wander around a closed antique store to an irregularly shaped cul-de-sac about two hundred by two hundred yards, partially enclosed by a gnarled mesh fence. Where there were no fence sections at all, the municipality had put up warning tapes with dire warnings on signs, but that wasn't what bothered Castle: the main thing here was not to run into drunken thugs, though he had a pack of "Franklins" in his pocket just in case. Moreover, the writer's eloquence hadn't disappeared, and who knows, maybe there were his admirers among the "slum souls" too?
Before turning toward the former casino, Castle held his step: for some reason, he could not escape the feeling that he was being watched closely. This small ripples on his back, these imperceptibly vibrating fingertips and, as if needles, tingling in the back of his head - such skills and sensations are developed mainly in "hot spots", and in which of them has been he, Castle, outsiders are better not to know ... In any case, the combat experience should have helped him, but to somehow smooth out the annoying nervousness, and discreetly look around, Castle, as if with a pebble in his shoe, suddenly limped, blackened and jumped leisurely in "one and a half feet" to the store window: there, on the low tide, was where to lower his butt.
He pulled off his shoe and sock, shook both long and hard, gesticulating grotesquely; swearing loudly, he felt his supposedly sore foot, cautiously shooting his eyes around: the street was practically deserted. A flock of teenagers with a ball by the concrete fence on the other side, a lone couple with a dog strolling orderly nearby, the rusting hulks of cars nearby without a single movement inside, and a lone homeless man snoring in the shadow of a dumpster with an empty bottle in his hand, his head resting against the shabby base of a store.
- I'm alone, I'm unarmed, if anything! - тhere was nothing to catch the eye, in fact, and Castle leisurely put on his shoes. With a nonchalant look danced in one place, ostensibly making sure that there was no inconvenience, and through the trash heaps, easy, wobbly gait headed towards the desired goal. As he passed the ragamuffin, he involuntarily quickened his step - even at a distance from the man, he smelled disgustingly of a mixture of booze, urine, and musty sweat. The man was dressed in dusty rags and had grown unshaven hair like an aged lion.
Looking around again, Castle bravely made his way under the signaling tape: the once neat lawns around the building were overgrown with thorny shrubs and grass, but the narrow path along the root-strewn asphalt undoubtedly led to the main entrance. It would be better to understand where the notorious fire was, because the background of the video was a dilapidated brick wall, of which there were plenty inside. And it would be better if all this construction junk did not collapse on his head: after all, Castle has a family, ex-wives and girlfriends, a sexy agent, ready to jump into his bed at the click of a button, and millions of fans, fortunately, not disappointed in his idol. And he does not want and will not disappoint them, but no one in the world for a long time to come will know with what risk to life was suffered a new plot. Perhaps later, someday, he will mention it somewhere between the lines, but with the passage of time will pass and today's fears and concerns. Yes, no matter how he, Castle, set himself up, he was really scared. Not always, but sometimes. And in the war, in covert operations, he was also desperately afraid, but still tried to hold himself together. And he fought, fought well, yes. For then, at home, Kira was waiting for him, proud and admiring him. Kira, his muse of long ago and the heroine of one of his books. One of those lost in the fire...
On the lowest step of the granite porch, Castle slowed his step and threw back his head: an old, long-abandoned five-story house loomed silently above him. The rays of the setting sun hardly illuminated it, the shadows from the neighboring buildings in the yard were densely carpeted, and it was unlikely that the Tooth Fairy would light his way. Inside, it was silent and semi-dark, with only the cooing of pigeons somewhere upstairs, and the sounds of the big city barely penetrating. The empty eye sockets of the bindings, the east end that had fallen inward, and the rotten rafters of the roof that folded inward into a shapeless ruin. The façade is riddled with cracks, with gnarled trees shaking their leaves on the ledges. Not a single window showed the glow of flame, but the smoke was still wafting from somewhere. And, as if drawn by Rapunzel's scythe, Castle cautiously penetrated inside and ... immediately stood behind the doorjamb: his heart was pounding restlessly, treacherous vapor sprinkled on his temples ...
- The devil! - Rick caught his breath, took a deep, long breath, patted himself lightly on the cheeks: he had to have faith in luck and his personal genius, and there was no risk in such situations.
The flashlight button clicked, a narrow beam slid through the chaos inside: visually discernible cracks in the floors and walls, an empty hall with torn out wiring, a littered floor with an age-old layer of dust and... clearly distinguishable bootprints leading somewhere deep inside...
The burning fire was barely glowing in the far corner of the small hall, and by the time Castle reached the desired place, he was really sweating. He turned around and listened a hundred times as he walked, but the absolute silence did not calm him down at all. And here he was, in the place where his long-suffering and, so to speak, long-awaited plot should unfold. Perhaps it is someone's malice, or perhaps - the Lord's grace, but in any case, he, Castle, will not just leave here.
- May the Almighty protect me! - Rick muttered softly, approaching the campfire and shining his flashlight. Even from a distance, he could recognize his books by their burnt bindings. But what was that strange object towering on the other side of the fire?
Cautious, small steps, not forgetting to listen to the darkness, Rick came closer: the outline of something covered with a cloth was hard to make out. And before pulling it off, Castle circled the object: an old armchair with a canopy under which something was hiding. And that something, not just a bonfire of books, is the crux of the whole affair. And after a moment's hesitation, Castle pulled the cloth to the corner: under it, on the sold-out cushions, with a knife sticking in his chest, sat a dead man. There could be no doubt about that.
- Oh, shit! This is not good! It's not good at all! - mumbled to himself under his breath, and Castle backed away: he began to feel uncomfortable. No, he was not frightened by the sight of a dead body (there were worse!), and the threateningly cracked ceilings and walls were also in the background - worse looked the unpleasant situation itself. And when something suddenly crunched behind him, Castle barely had time to turn around. He saw only a dark, blurry figure in front of him, and immediately, from the start, received a powerful, penetrating blow in the stomach.
- Agrghhh... - Rick wheezed in pain, breaking in half, and at that moment a foul-smelling scrap of cloth was pressed against his face. And there was nothing Castle could do about it: his lungs reflexively sucked in the poisoned air, causing his throat and bronchi to constrict, Rick coughed, and the ground swam out from under his feet...
...all day long her temples felt like hammers were pounding - probably due to the upcoming change of weather and the next (women's) days. Or maybe it was just the persistent sleep deprivation of a person who lives only for work. Just like her. And yes, Detective Catherine Beckett often referred to herself in the third person: it was not a habit since childhood - the impact of terrible, personal drama. The death of her mother, her dearest and closest person, who was taken from her and her father by someone's evil and unpredictable will, almost undermined her and threw her father into a months-long groggy sleep. And Lord alone knew what it had taken to keep her from going off the rails, and in the end she vowed to find those bastards so she could drop them to their knees in front of her, with their hands bound behind their backs, and finally feel everyone's relief, but... That moment never came, and in order not to go crazy on the basis of relentless, daily searches, had to resort to the help of a psychologist and bogged down in work. She, Detective Beckett, even today had a lot of this favorite but sometimes hated work: stacks of cases on the table, these countless reports and reports that she does not forget to fill out, forms of expertise and her, in addition to brains, the main and unique tool - the time-line on a white board. At which you can, leisurely biting a fingernail or drinking coffee, calmly think about the prospects of the case, laying out the evidence on the shelves, and when the criminal puzzle came together, to experience a kind of euphoria, until ... Until a new case comes along, a more unusual and complicated one...
-... I think we've got a body! - тhe familiar husky voice interrupted her thoughts, and Kate looked up: a sturdy Hispanic man in a leather jacket stood in front of her, his hands on his chest, waiting.
- A corpse? - and Beckett immediately put her pen away: leaning back in her chair, she was ready to jump up at any moment. - And why exactly "seems," Espo?
Her partner, Javier Esposito, stepped from foot to foot, his hands almost up to his elbows in his pants pockets.
- Anonymous 911 call reporting a possible crime. The address used to be an underground casino, but it's been abandoned for years. You coming?
- Yes!" - Kate glanced at the large wristwatch and thought it would be a good idea to swallow a pill. - Give me a couple minutes, and I'll catch up with you!
And she wrinkled her nose painfully: she didn't envy the scoundrel who would probably get in her way today...