Just Another Day: Chapter 10
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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1:22 p.m. on May 14, 2012, At the Castle's Complex in Sausalito, California
"Finally," James Hoffner whispers to himself, watching Nurse Gail Simmons leave his room. The sedative he pretended to take has given the staff there the impression that he is unconscious. His broken leg eliminates any chance of escape. He has been counting on these two combinations – his incapacitation and faking sleep – to eventually give him a precious minute or two of solitude.
A minute is all he will need.
James Hoffner has long ago decided that he will determine his own fate. He will meet his Maker on his own terms.
Incarcerated in jail? Not a chance.
Held hostage, interrogated? Potentially tortured. Nope, not happening.
Lung cancer has already stolen years from him. It has stolen precious family time from him. Of course, his family doesn't see it this way.
Lydia, God bless her soul, begged him to continue taking the treatments. He, of course, considered taking experimental, unproven treatments to be a useless endeavor. He has made it clear that he has had enough of chemotherapy and immunotherapy and whatever other therapy comes along.
He has had enough.
"I won't spend my final months . . . my final weeks as a lab rate, a pin-cushion trying yet another experimental immuno-drug with less than 20% effectiveness," he had told Lydia just two weeks ago.
A one-in-five success rate, spending his final days consumed in nausea, consumed in dizziness and whatever other draconian side-effect this newest drug brings with it?
No thank you.
He has been enjoying his final weeks, doing this job for Raymond Hopkins. Hopkins has always been a friend. He has always been good to Hoffner, and has set aside a significant amount of cash for Lydia and the family, knowing that Hoffner is dying.
So no, he isn't going to risk giving anything away. He isn't going to jail. And he certainly isn't going to allow himself to be interrogated. And this broken leg – he knows it is his femur bone – well, he is no idiot. He knows what the recovery from such an injury looks like. More than that, he knows he does not have the strength for such a recovery . . . not in his weakened state.
Worse . . . he does not have the time. The recovery from such an injury is measured in months, not weeks.
He does not have months.
He reaches into his zipped pocket, in his carpenter pants. Pulling out his cell phone, he clicks the entry once he finds it, listening for anyone to return to the room. Seeing the image of Raymond Hopkins, he smiles.
His fingers confidently type his message.
"Trapped at the complex. My way. My time. Tell Lydia I loved her."
Smiling, he flips screens on the small device until he gets to his photographs. As always, the first image that comes up is Lydia. His partner, his wife of twenty-seven years. Some would say it isn't fair to die so young. He will be fifty-four in nine days.
He would have been fifty-four.
"Long enough," he thinks to himself, staring at the photograph of Lydia, his wife. He smiles as he moves his tongue to his hollow tooth, biting down hard, and inhaling the gas fumes it releases.
"Long enough," he says out loud, again. It is his final thought as the liquid begins bubbling out of his unmoving lips.
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Same time, 1:22 p.m. on May 14, 2012, At the Castle's Complex in Sausalito, California in the very next room
"What's on your mind, Sam?" Richard Castle asks his friend, who is far and away, deep in thought.
Sam Carlos glances at Richard Castle, and smiles wistfully.
"I am conflicted," Carlos admits. "The best place for Willie is at the Chinatown Hospital. And I am grateful to you and your team for lending your aircraft to shuttle Willie there."
"Not a problem at all, you know this Sam," Castle remarks. "What's on your mind?"
"I am wondering," Carlos begins, then glances away, taking another look at his friend and enforcer who lies still in the portable patient bed.
"I am wondering if I should have Jennifer moved there as well," Carlos finally states.
"Is it wise moving her, Sam?" Kate asks. "It's not exactly across the street. It's across the city, and after this earthquake, we don't even know the state of the streets and freeways."
"I am hoping nothing collapsed again," Nurse Gail Simmons adds, sharing her concerns.
"That is my conflict," Carlos agrees. "It would be best if Jennifer and Willie were together. That way I could bring my resources – and yours, which you have graciously offered – to a single place."
"Why is that important, Sam?" Richard asks. Before Sam Carlos can reply, Kate Beckett answers for him.
"Because once Willie is admitted, the likelihood that someone doesn't find out . . . the likelihood that that piece of information doesn't get out?"
"Zero to none," Carlos finishes her thought. "And any of my enemies will see a vulnerable, hospital-bound Willie Crockett as an opportunity to attack my friend."
Richard Castle merely nods his head, his face saddening in agreement.
"So, you see, I fully expect someone to try to finish what they started with Jennifer, and I expect them to begin an attempt with Willie. Willie must be my focus . . . but I am searching for a way to be there for both of my . . . my friends."
"They both are far more than friends to you, Sam," Kate replies softly, her hand once again on her friend's shoulder.
"Yes, they are," Carlos admits, smiling sadly. "And now they both are paying the price for their proximity to me."
"If you are finished with the dramatic readings, can you guys just get me out of here and to the hospital," Willie Crockett offers with a pained smirk.
"That is the first sensible thing I have heard in the last minute or two," Gail Simmons remarks, reminding them of the man's plight.
"Internal bleeding, broken ribs, a hasty stitch job . . . if this man is as important as you all state that he is, let's get him to a better facility. You can whine about this and that once you get him there."
"Well spoken, Miss Simmons," Sam Carlos agrees. "How soon can your helicopter be ready, Richard?"
"Should be any minute now," Castle answers. "Kate had already texted Ron, and Lindy is going to meet you at the helipad."
"Then let's get a move on it," Kate remarks, moving everyone along. "Gail, help me with this bed. Let's get it to the helipad ASAP."
"Ok, let me run back to Mr. Hoffner's room, make sure everything is stable there, and get Dawn to come sit with our little captive," Simmons tells her, moving toward the door. Seconds later she is out the door, heading a few feet to the next room.
Kate begins moving the bed from the wall – thankful for the wheels on the bed. Richard Castle helps her as they start moving the portable bed toward the door when all in the room hear the exclamation coming from the adjacent room.
"Well shit," Nurse Gail Simmons screams aloud, backing out from the room.
"Problem?" Sam Carlos asks. He is the first out the door and at the doorway to the second room, where Simmons backs into him as she tries to get out of the room.
"You could say that," she tells the San Francisco man. "Cyanide."
"What?" Richard Castle exclaims, overhearing the conversation. He leaves the portable bed in the doorway.
"Move him that way, away from here, quickly," Gail states, as she backs out of the doorway. "Our Mr. Hoffner has chosen Door number 2."
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1:30 p.m. on May 14, 2012, At Raymond Hopkins' residence on the San Francisco Marina
"Dammit," Raymond Hopkins remarks, his phone dropping from his fingers onto the sofa between his legs, where he sits.
"Problem, sir?" Seymour Baskins asks.
"Hoffner is gone," Hopkins replies solemnly. "He went out on his own terms."
Both men are quiet for a few seconds before the loyal family butler states the obvious.
"Which is exactly what he – and you – wanted for the man, sir," Seymour reminds Hopkins. "His way."
"Those were his exact words," Hopkins relays to his friend.
"Those were words he spoke to you on numerous occasions, sir," Seymour reminds him yet again. "It is a blessing to leave this planet on your own terms."
"Yes, I suppose it is," Hopkins agrees. Still, he had hoped that his friend would have had more time. It is selfish, of course, knowing the pain and suffering that James Hoffner has endured for the past year and a half.
A sudden chime and vibration on his phone between his legs interrupts his thoughts, as Hopkins glances down, seeing the incoming call.
"Yes Carmelo," he answers, picking up the phone quickly, as he compartmentalizes the death of yet another friend and colleage.
"Bad news, boss," Carmelo Martinez tells Hopkins.
Carmelo Martinez is another long-time resource that Raymond Hopkins has used for his more clandestine endeavors. Martinez' job this morning had been simple. Break into the single car garage of one Detective Jennifer Blackard, cut the brake lines, and get out. The next time Blackard got onto the freeway . . . well, physics would take care of her.
His vendetta against the detective is simple. His thoughts go back to that horrific night on Angel Island. As he walked out of the bunker area, hands raised into the nighttime air, with the television camera rolling for the entire city to see, it was Detective Jennifer Blackard holding the badge. It was Detective Jennifer Blackard who arrested him, at gunpoint.
It was Detective Jennifer Blackard who ruined his life, ruined his marriage.
Of course, it isn't her fault that he allowed himself into this mess in the first place, but that is neither here nor there. Justice – his warped justice – demands a sacrifice, a scapegoat, and Jennifer Blackard fits that bill nicely.
"So, what went wrong, Carmelo?" Hopkins asks the man.
"Nothing went wrong, sir," Martinez begins. "I cut her brakes, just as we planned. But she didn't make it to the freeway. She was hit in an intersection. Hit good, but not good enough. Paramedics took her away."
"How bad was she?" Hopkins asks, his fury building. Can't anything go right this morning?
"Not bad enough, sir," Martinez answers. "Broken arm for certain, but I didn't see much else."
"Where did they take her?" Hopkins asks.
"San Francisco General," Martinez replies.
"San Mateo?" Hopkins asks.
"Yes, sir," Martinez replies. "Do you want me to go there and finish the job?"
Raymond Hopkins moves away from the sofa, now standing in front of the large bay window that shows him the bay water, and a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. He glances at the sight, a sight that he has loved since he was a little boy.
"No, Carmelo," Hopkins surprises the man. "I will get Tony and his crew on this. Your skill is cars and accidents. Tony's crew is more capable for this next phase that is necessary."
With that, Raymond Hopkins hangs up the phone, now thinking ahead to Tony Naples and his infamous crew of five that have been responsible for multiple 'accidents' in the city over the last decade. Yes, Tony will be a better option for the incapacitated detective.
Tony's boys are masters of 'the way'. They will get in and out with no one the wiser.
"They will take care of the bitch detective," Hopkins states aloud. Seymour Baskins, of course has heard the entire conversation which Hopkins left on speakerphone. He has learned to hide nothing from the man who is most loyal to him.
"Be careful, sir," Baskins reminds him. "The detective did not show up to the island on her own, by herself. She had help. And you know where that help came from . . . and who is likely to have at least one person guarding her room."
"I am aware of that, yes, Seymour," Hopkins agrees. "Thank you very much, my friend," he continues, now thinking ahead, wondering if he should add Marco and his team to Tony's in this little exercise.
"No, you don't want to overdo it," he speaks aloud. "These guys operate best in stealth mode, and having too many of them there at one time eliminates that stealth."
"Still, sir . . . " Baskins leaves the thought hanging.
"I know, my friend . . . I know," Hopkins replies, his fingers tapping his phone idly until he makes up his mind. Seconds later, he is placing a second call.
"Marco," Hopkins greets the man. "I have a new job for you . . . one that you will partner with Tony on."