Just Another Day: Chapter 19
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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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8:01 p.m. on May 14, 2012, on rooftop elevator of the San Francisco Chinese Hospital in Chinatown
As soon as the door closes, Derrick hits the red Emergency Stop button, freezing the elevator in place. He takes out his cellphone, punches a few digits, and waits patiently for an answer. He does not have to wait beyond three rings.
"Farley," the voice answers.
"Mr. Hopkins," Nurse Derrick Farley replies. "They have all just left. Apparently, they are on to the fact that someone is after them."
"Of course they are, Farley," Raymond Hopkins replies. "These people are not stupid. My people did not do their job. Worse, they were seen during their retreat."
"And Jacoby is captured and likely being questioned by now by the authorities," Farley replies, referring to the doctor-in-disguise who failed miserably in his attempt to enter Willie Crockett's room and harm the large man.
"Now, tell me exactly who 'they' are, and where 'they' are going," Hopkins asks his undercover man at the hospital.
"The second question is easier," Farley replies. "They are headed to that women's shelter across the Golden Gate Bridge."
"Do tell," Hopkins replies, a crease of worry appearing on his face.
"And when I say 'they', I mean the detective, and her friend from across the bay . . . the girlfriend."
"Her friend's name is Beckett," Hopkins tells him. "Do not underestimate her. Do not underestimate any of them."
"Understood, sir," Farley answers. "There also were four others."
"Four?" Hopkins replies, his surprise clearly evident.
"Crockett was there, as you surmised," Farley continues. "So was another man, kind of mixed – maybe Asian, maybe Hispanic, and another –"
"Carlos," Hopkins barely whispers. "The behemoth had to be close by then."
"He was there, yes sir," Farley continues. "And another woman. A blonde. Didn't seem like much, but I could tell that they . . ."
Farley pauses, as if searching for the right words.
"You could tell that they what, Farley?" Hopkins asked, his curiosity raised. He places his glass of bourbon down on the nightstand.
"I could tell they kind of deferred to her, sir," Farley finally replies.
Hopkins is quiet for a moment, before finally responding.
"Interesting," Hopkins all but whispers. "There have been rumors of a woman at Mr. Castle's complex who . . . how do I put it . . . who more or less rivals Mr. Crockett in both ability and tenacity."
"I can't answer that, sir," Farley replies again. All I can telling you is what I witnessed personally."
"Thank you, Farley," Raymond Hopkins thanks the man as he signs off. "I will be in touch with you shortly."
Hopkins sits back down on the bed, his night slippers on his feet. It has been a hell of a day. He has lost a friend in Hoffner, and nothing has gone right in his efforts to teach the bitch detective a lesson. And now, an opportunity to take a swipe at Sam Carlos' right hand man – while the man is vulnerable – was unsuccessful.
Thanks to Derrick Farley, he knows that Crockett was admitted, and he knows the cause of the admission. This knowledge . . . this intelligence tells him that the big man will be out of commission for some time.
That's great news.
However, knowing that the rumored warrior out in Richard Castle's Sausalito playground was there at the hospital is horrible news, on two fronts.
First, there is likely no successful way to get to Crockett through her . . . although that does not mean he won't be trying.
Second, however, and far more important, it validates the rumors that speak of a closeness between Sam Carlos and Richard Castle that – at least initially – Hopkins found almost laughable.
The man, however, is not laughing now.
"You seem troubled, sir," Seymour Baskins, loyal servant – slash – butler – slash – housekeeper to the fallen financier remarks.
"Astute as ever, Seymour," Hopkins semi-smiles. He stares down at his tumbler of bourbon which sits on the nightstand, rubbing the glass between his fingers.
"Have you ever known, Seymour . . . I mean really known that you have bitten off more than you can chew . . . but the damage is done. The substance is in your mouth and you have chewed on it . . . really chewed on it."
"Indeed, sir," Baskins answers dutifully.
"What do you do in that situation?" Hopkins asks. His butler responds without hesitation.
"You have two choices, and only two choices, sir," Baskins remarks. "You either swallow, or you spit it out."
"Those are the only two choices," Hopkins reacts bitterly.
"Indeed, sir," Baskins repeats. "And the problem with people . . . powerful people such as yourself, if I may be so bold, sir . . . is that you look for a Door Number Three, when there is no such door. And that delay is costly, sir."
Hopkins can only nod his head in agreement.
"You are right, as you all too often are, my friend," he tells the servant.
"So, sir . . . you will continue chewing, not swallowing, and not spitting . . . in a fruitless search for that illusive and mythical door."
Both men chuckle at the servant's understanding of the master.
"You know me too well, Seymour," Hopkins finally admits. "You know me far too well."
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8:13 p.m. on May 14, 2012, at the landing pad at the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California
The large heli-craft is descending slowly, carefully amid the northern California winds that are coming off the Pacific Ocean just to the west of the campus. Pilot Ron Daniels, always careful to a fault, isn't taking any chances with his precious cargo and is being extra careful with this descent.
Off in the distance, some fifty yards away, stands Richard Castle, hands in pockets, head and eyes down averting the winds that the blades are kicking up. Mike Monroe, his head of security, stands with him in a similar pose.
In truth, the man is highly conflicted, moreso than usual.
On one hand, Detective Jennifer Blackard is on this craft. Which means Kate Beckett is on this craft. That's wonderful news. When Kate left, it was clear that she was going to be staying to protect her detective friend, and her return was up in the air. Richard Castle had been thinking in terms of days – best case – and weeks for a worst case scenario.
But hours? Mere hours after her departure, she returns? It is almost good to be true.
But that is only one hand.
On the other hand? Ah . . . there is the rub, as they say.
Willie Crockett is on this craft as well. And both Crockett and Blackard are coming here for one reason and one reason only.
Protection.
Which means there will be people potentially coming after them. Here. At this place.
The fact that someone could be coming to do those two friends harm is not what is bothering Richard Castle right now. Hell, he owes both a debt. Blackard for helping get forty-nine women – and one Grayson Hamilton – rescued and back safely home with their loved ones.
And Willie Crockett? He cannot think of the massive man without thinking of Alexis. It is a debt he can never repay.
Never.
No, he is fine with both needing the protection of this place, and happy to be able to provide it. The problem is almost 100 families of women here. Bringing these two good friends here – in their vulnerable state – puts all of his women in harm's way. And the very point of this place is to take these women OUT of harm's way.
It is a tragic Catch-22.
Kate Beckett has already told him on the phone that Sam Carlos is not on the helicopter, not returning with Crockett. That had initially surprised him until she mentioned something about him running down a few leads. Richard Castle knows what a Sam Carlos running down a few leads looks like. He almost feels sorry for whomever is in Carlos' path tonight.
Almost.
He finds himself relieved, however, that Carlos is not here. The man is far too perceptive, and would likely immediately pick up on Castle's inner conflict. And though Carlos would likely understand – he has proven so in the past – Richard Castle is not one to push his luck.
At least not too terribly far.
He snaps out of his reverie when he realizes the chopper blades have stopped, the engine has shut down and Kate Beckett is literally less than fifteen yards away, wheeling Detective Jennifer Blackard.
Both women have a confused look on their faces. Kate is the first to speak.
"Wow, I have seen you zoned out before, but not like this," Kate begins. "It's like you didn't even notice I was off the chopper."
"You aren't that far off base, Babe," he tells her sheepishly. "I have to admit, my mind is in ten different places right now."
"And that's unusual for you?" Detective Blackard snickers, pulling Castle's gaze down to the woman in the wheelchair. He immediately notices the external fixture apparatus on her arm, and the screws sticking out. He is immediately taken back a few months to the exact same injury he sustained during a T-bone car accident.
"Damn, Jennifer," he begins. "I am so sorry. I don't wish that on my worst enemy, much less people I care about."
"Thanks, Rick," the detective replies. "Right now, the drugs are keeping me happy. But come talk to me tomorrow."
"You mean around midnight tonight, I'm afraid," he warns her, and notices her eyes widening with his admission.
"Seriously?" she asks.
"Seriously," he truthfully tells her.
Kate Beckett picks this moment to step around the wheelchair and into the arms of her fiancé. His long strong arms wrap around her, pulling her tightly into an emotional embrace . . . and a sustained kiss.
"I didn't think I'd see you for quite some time," he admits, as they lock heads together.
"Me neither, Babe," she replies. "But I am glad to get back, glad to have Jennifer with me. And glad to have Willie safely here as well."
Both glance at the sleeping form of Sam Carlos' fearsome enforcer as he is being wheeled to the administration building by Lindy Matthews and Mike Monroe, who left Castle standing as soon as the engines shut off.
"He is okay?" Castle asks.
"He is fine," Lindy replies. "Just getting some much-needed shuteye, care of a nice little cocktail we gave him on the chopper."
"He will be safe here," Monroe adds. "So will you, Jennifer."
"I am appreciative, don't get me wrong," Blackard answers, her gaze now fixed firmly on Richard Castle.
"But I also am feeling a lot of guilt here," she continues. "Me being here – with someone after me – and Willie being here puts all of the women here in danger."
"It is what it is," Castle remarks, surprising even himself with the sudden clarity of the moment. Even Kate is taken aback with his almost cavalier approach.
"Trust me, it is all I have thought about since you departed from the hospital, Jennifer," he tells her. "And the reason I was frozen in this spot when you landed was because that was still percolating in my head."
"And now?" Kate asks the question both she and her old college roommate are thinking.
"And now, I realize that I have built this place to protect battered women, women who are in physical danger. That includes you, now, Jennifer. Perhaps not for the same reason, not the same situation . . . but the end result is the same. You are in danger, and you need protection. That is why this place exists."
"And Willie?" Jennifer asks, tears of gratitude forming in her eyes.
"Oh hell no, don't tell Willie I said he was an abused woman," Castle laughs with mock alarm. The man might club me to death from his hospital bed."
He turns his attention to Kate once again.
"Sam?" he asks.
"I'm not sure where Sam is," she begins. "But I can tell you, whoever is on the other end of his activities tonight . . . I fear for that person, Rick. I really do."
He nods his head, and utters the words that surprise both women once again.
"I don't," he tells them, turning toward the administration building. "They made their beds."