WORTH WORKING FOR
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two dozen pairs of eyes follow her when she props her hip against a desk next to Ryan, joining the briefing.
"Nice of you to join us, Detective," Gates says sarcastically, her brows raised in a look that bleeds annoyance.
Kate swallows through the tension in her throat. "Sorry, Sir," she manages.
Ryan nudges her arm when Gates resumes talking. "Everything okay?" he asks in a quiet voice.
She barely spares him a glance. "Mm-hmm."
But it's not okay. None of this is okay. As Gates eloquently points out, every single person in the city is a potential target, there are a thousand or more potential suspects, and they're at square one.
Not even at square one. They're at square fucking zero with what little they have to go on.
Someone's out there targeting who the hell knows, and they have nothing.
Who's the next victim? Some unassuming waitress or doctor? A cop? Someone on her team?
Rick?
Her?
Her chest tightens, and she shoves her hands in her pockets and curls them into fists, the pain of her nails biting into her palms distracting her just enough that she doesn't scream.
She needs a drink - no, out of the question.
Air. She needs air. She needs to get out of here, to go…where?
Her fingers itch to call Rick.
She just manages to stifle a scoff. As if he'll want to talk to her right now.
Burke.
He'll understand. He'll fix her.
She'll talk to him, and then she'll be okay.
She has to be.
"It's not that easy."
Kate takes a deep breath, her hands balled into fists inside her coat pockets as she paces behind the couch. She's here on purpose, put the furniture between her and her therapist to hide just how much she's trembling.
"You can't just snap your fingers and be okay, Kate," Dr. Burke continues. He folds his hands on his lap, on top of the clipboard he's ignoring. "The aftereffects of trauma don't just go away in a few months. If you don't face your struggles head-on, they'll get buried and ignored until they eventually bubble back to the surface, returning with a vengeance. You can ignore it, and deal with it later, when you'll likely be worse." He pauses, waiting for Kate to look at him before he continues. "Or you can deal with it right now."
"I thought that's what I've been doing." When Dr. Burke just nods in confirmation, she sighs and presses the heel of one hand to her forehead. "Jesus Christ," she mutters.
"It takes time," he says quietly.
"Time I don't have if I'm gonna catch this guy."
"Okay, say you do. Say you manage to get through this case unscathed, then what?" Burke holds his hands out to the side. "How do you get through the next case that reminds you of your shooting?"
She scoffs. "I doubt there will be two snipers in a row."
"Your first case back wasn't a sniper, and you still ended up looking down the barrel of a gun." He motions to her torso. "Healing isn't just about you, Kate, about being able to get through any case that reminds you of your shooting. It's about being the best version of yourself, of being able to work through your triggers so they don't control your life. So you can be the best detective you can be, the best partner, the best mother."
Kate sighs and leans forward, her hands on the back of the couch. Logically, she knows he's right. This isn't even the first time they've had a version of this conversation. The work she's doing now will help her in the long run.
But right now, she doesn't give a shit about the long run. There won't be a long run if she can't catch this guy before he targets her.
"I can't care about the long-term benefits of therapy right now," she argues. "What can I do to get through the next few days?"
"I think you should consider stepping away from the case."
She scoffs and pushes herself off the couch, resumes her pacing. "Yeah right."
"You're not the only detective in the city, Kate."
"No, but I'm the only one who-" She pauses, her words failing her.
"Who what?" Dr. Burke's eyes follow her. "Who knows what it's like to be in the crosshairs of a rifle?"
She sighs and presses her palms to her temple. "You know what?" She takes a deep, shaky breath and looks up at her therapist, her mind set. "Never mind. I'm fine."
I have to be.
The drive back to the precinct takes longer than usual, but it allows her to get her thoughts together, to regroup and strategize a bit.
At least, she tries to.
But every noise has her jumping out of her skin. Every honk, every siren, every shout outside her window sends panic shooting through her. She's so distracted that she misses the turn into the precinct garage, and she has to circle the block.
It isn't much better inside.
The elevator should be a straight shot to the fourth floor, but it stops at the lobby, and when the doors open to let someone on, she's hit with the telltale noise of an overwhelmingly busy front desk.
"Hey Beckett," the other person greets her, pressing the button for the third floor.
She wishes she remembered his name, but he's in plainclothes and she's a little distracted, so she just offers a polite nod and tight-lipped smile.
The door stops on three, and the man steps out. "Good luck with the case. Lemme know if we can help."
She manages a weak thanks, and then the doors close again, leaving her – blessedly – alone. She takes a few deep breaths and curls her trembling hands into fists, tries to prepare herself to be thrust back into the case.
The doors open, and it's like all hell broke loose when she was gone.
She runs straight into Velasquez when she steps off, and she mutters an apology, shoves her hands in her coat pockets.
"Yo, Beckett, where you been? I've been calling."
She manages to lift her head just in time to see Espo approaching her with long, sure strides, pulling his jacket on.
She swallows thickly. "My phone died," she lies. It didn't, she just never turned it back on after walking out of therapy. "What's up?"
Espo gives her a long, questioning look. "Unis found the nest where he shot Henry Wyatt from," he explains, obviously choosing to ignore everything else.
That's fine with her, she doesn't want to try and explain why she disappeared.
"We found a shell casing," he continues, "and a print belonging to a Marcus Ford. Former Army Ranger sniper, owns a shooting range. We're gonna pick him up now."
She relaxes more with every word that comes out of his mouth.
A fingerprint.
A former sniper.
We got him.
I'll be okay.
Espo steps into the elevator with several unis, and he presses his hand against the door, holding it open. "You coming?"
She can only stare.
"We'll stay behind," Ryan pipes up from behind her. "Study up on Ford, prep for interrogation."
She doesn't see the knowing look they share, just hunches her shoulders and almost sprints to her desk. Ryan follows, and he rolls a chair next to her.
"Do you want me to lead?" he asks, sitting down and opening the file on the suspect.
She glances at the top sheet, with Ford's picture and general history. On paper, he's just the kind of person they're looking for.
The kind of person who could have shot her.
This is my chance.
She shakes her head. "No, I'll do it."
She ignores the concerned look in Ryan's eye, just pulls the folder closer.
She's got this.
She's fine.
She isn't fine.
If Gates confirming that Ford has solid alibis wasn't bad enough, Ryan comments about how hard she had pushed in interrogation, and Espo tries to cover it up by saying it's a good cop-bad cop thing, and he'll play good cop.
Logically, she knows it makes sense. Espo will bond with him about their time in the service, and Ford will help. But it still stings when she hears him apologize before he shuts the door.
And somehow, it gets worse. Because when she emerges from the bathroom a few minutes after losing what little was in her stomach, there's a familiar figure standing in front of the murder board, and he might be the last person she wants to see right now.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she snaps.
Rick turns, and his jaw clenches when he studies her. "When's the last time you ate?" he asks, concern lacing his words despite the anger still simmering between them. "It's not just-"
"Me, I know," she finishes for him, glancing around to make sure nobody's close enough to overhear. "I've been a little busy, what with people being shot left and right."
His nostrils flare at her tone, but he jerks his head towards her desk. "Brought food. What's the deal with the paper doll?"
Her stomach rumbles from hunger, but she ignores the bag – and his disapproving look – and opens the folder on her desk. She skims the CSU report on the doll, but when Rick leans over and tries to read it, she tilts it away from him.
Rick huffs and leans back, and he crosses his arms, clearly annoyed. "They're probably from a high-end coffee table book," he tells her.
She looks up, the tension in her shoulders lifting slightly. "How do you know?"
He shrugs. "Glanced at the report when I got here. Eat," he tells her, sliding the food bag towards her.
"I'm fine," she lies, standing to move closer to the murder board. Her eyes land on the picture of Sarah Vasquez, a bloody hole in the middle of her chest. She rubs her fingers against her own scar.
Her gaze drifts to the paper doll attached to the board, and she takes it down so she can examine it closer.
"It almost looks like a painting."
She jumps at Rick's voice right behind her. She hadn't even heard him move. "What?"
He takes it out of her hand. "The picture. I think it's from an art book, like the ones that they sell at museums?" He continues when she nods. "See that, how the color looks? I think those are brush strokes."
Her mind races. That information helps, but tracking down the actual book will be close to impos-
The shrill ring of her phone interrupts her thoughts, and she swipes to answer. "Beckett."
"It's Ryan. We found the first hideout."
"Great. I'll meet you there." She hangs up and tacks the paper doll back on the board before grabbing her coat. "I gotta go."
Rick picks up the Remy's bag. "You can eat on the way."
She blinks at him. "Excuse me?"
"I'm going with you."
"Like hell you are," she snaps, taking the bag from him. "Go home and stay there." She hears his footsteps fall in place behind her, and she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose as she waits for the elevator. She wants to believe that he's listening, that he's going to get off at the lobby so he can leave.
That hope is dashed when he follows her to the garage.
When the elevator stops, she pushes the emergency button, stopping the doors from opening, and turns to face Rick with her hands on her hips.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Rick mirrors her pose. "I told you, I'm coming."
"I'm going to a crime scene, Rick. You're not allowed."
"Then I'll stand outside." A muscle twitches in his jaw as he stares her down. "Or I'll just follow you anyway. It's your choice."
"There's a madman out there, shooting people at random," she argues, barely keeping the tremor out of her voice. "You should be home, where you're safe."
"Not gonna happen, Kate. Besides, you said yourself there's no indication that he's returning to the scenes, and that probably includes his nests. I'll be perfectly safe with you."
She clenches her jaw. God, he might be more stubborn than her. After a few seconds, the elevator alarm goes off, indicating it's been stopped for too long. She sighs and hangs her head in defeat.
She's too tired to fight him anymore.
"Fine." She pushes the emergency stop again, releasing it, and the doors open.
Before Rick follows her out, though, she presses her palm to his chest to stop him. "You do what I say, when I say it. No questions, no arguments. I tell you to leave, or drop to the ground, you do it. Okay?"
He nods.
She sighs and leads him to her car.
Another paper doll.
They're definitely clues left by the shooter; too bad he didn't also leave behind what they mean.
Rick offers to go to the library and look through art books, but by the time they leave the shooter's hideout – the sniper nest – it's too late. The library's closed.
A closed library, two paper dolls with who-the-hell-knows-what on them, two vacant rooms that so far have yielded zero useful clues, and someone out there who doesn't know they're seeing the sun set for the last time.
The guys – Rick included – leave the precinct only when she promises she won't stay too long – an empty promise, but she's obviously convincing enough.
She never finished her lunch, she realizes when she spots the now-melted milkshake on her desk, a ring of condensation marring the wood. She'd taken a few bites of the burger while she and Rick walked to her cruiser, but the bag ended up on the passenger side floor, forgotten.
Her stomach rumbles with hunger, and normally she'd just grab something from the vending machine and push through, but she can't do that now. She isn't just feeding herself, she reminds herself as she picks up the phone to call in a delivery.
"Why these victims?" she mutters, leaning back in her chair, staring at the board.
As far as they've been able to tell, the two victims have nothing in common except their fate. It's frustrating and infuriating.
They missed something, she decides. Sarah Vasquez's financials came in when they were at the sniper's nest, and she spreads them across the conference table, studies them as she eats.
She doesn't notice the bullpen empty, the day shift going home for much-needed rest and the skeletal night shift dispersed to various assignments. She just pours over the financials until her eyes cross, going line-by-line, trying to find something, anything, that will lead to a clue.
She's jolted awake by a loud crash – she didn't even realize she fell asleep – and she jumps up, her hand on her gun, frantic eyes searching for the source.
She relaxes when she sees the janitor picking up a mop from the floor.
She hears a faint ringing, but she ignores it as she brings her attention back to the papers in front of her.
In the quiet stillness of the precinct, she can hear the ambient noise from outside. Usually, the Manhattan street noise fades into the background, a soundtrack that she's used to. It's never bothered her.
Until now.
Now, every noise has her on edge, has her looking around for the final blow, for the scope of a rifle, or the sharp blade of a knife.
She jumps when she hears two loud bangs, and she falls to the floor in a panic. She shuffles back to the wall, waiting for the bullet, for the shot that will put her out of her misery.
Time passes – minutes that feel like hours – and when nothing else happens, she manages to push herself off the floor.
It was just a car backfiring, she tells herself, or a slamming door.
"Get a hold of yourself, Beckett," she mutters, pulling her chair back to the table.
She barely sits when she hears it.
A loud bang, then breaking glass.
He found me.
Her chair clatters to the floor as she jumps up, and she stumbles over it, almost goes sprawling on her rush out of the room, away from the windows, the danger, the bullet.
She stops in the bullpen, adrenaline rushing through her as she looks around, frantically searching for a place to hide. She ducks behind her desk, out of sight from the windows.
She moves into a crouch so she can look around-
There's a flash of light on the far wall, and she cries out in a panic.
Every sound from outside echoes, the danger only coming closer.
She needs to hide.
Break room.
She hesitates, but the sound of more breaking glass sends her scrambling.
She's in the break room in seconds, slams the door shut behind her.
Blinded by her fear, she runs her hands across the counter, looking for something – anything – she can use as a weapon. Her fingers curl around the coffee pot, but her panic and haste has made her clumsy.
The glass carafe falls to the floor, shattering on impact, and she follows, presses her back to the counter, tries not to shatter herself.
With no exterior walls or windows, this room is the perfect hideout from a sniper.
It's also too far to hear any noises from outside.
Slowly, her panic begins to fade, the sirens and car horns and slamming doors replaced by the low hum of the refrigerator. She doesn't know how much time passes, but eventually her breathing slows, her heart rate returns to normal.
She winces in pain when she puts her hand on the floor, and she lifts her arm to see a trail of blood trickling from her wrist to the floor. A quick exam reveals a cut on her wrist, and she washes it, digs a first aid kid out from under the sink, and wraps it.
Finally, after cleaning as much broken glass as she can see, she collapses on the couch and drifts off to a fitful sleep.
She's awake long before the day shift starts coming in, takes a few minutes to change into her spare clothes and replace the bandage on her arm before Gates arrives.
"Anything, Detective?" Gates asks on her way to her office.
Kate just shakes her head.
Soon, the bullpen is full again, but she takes little comfort in knowing that she's not physically alone. Neither of their victims was alone, both on a crowded street, and they still ended up in the morgue.
How long until she joins them?
"Hey, Beckett."
She jumps when she hears Ryan's voice, tugs her jacket sleeve back down over her bandage. "Hey."
Ryan drops his bag on his chair and gives her a curious look. "Were you here all night?"
She ignores his question. "What's that?" she asks, motioning to the folder in his hand.
He glances through it and groans in frustration. "DNA on the moleskin's a bust."
Her heart sinks. No DNA, still no links between the victims, video of the shooter but not his face...
Back to square zero.
"Hey." Ryan puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We're gonna catch this guy."
She scoffs and grabs yesterday's coffee mug from her desk. "Yeah," she says sarcastically, "like we caught the guy who shot me."
Before she can go to the break room for coffee – or not, she remembers, since she broke the carafe – Rick bursts out of the elevator, waving a paper doll over his head.
"I know what the dolls mean!" he announces, loud enough that Gates emerges from her office.
"Mr. Castle, did you take evidence-"
"Copies," he interrupts. "I figured it out."
She barely listens as he explains how the paintings are predictive, how the next clue appears to be "grace," so they may be able to narrow down potential targets before the next shooting-
And then every phone in the precinct rings.