[ i know the feeling ]
Martha's phone call is the first tip-off that something's gone wrong at the motel.
The second is the five or six calls Beckett makes to Castle over the course of the next fifteen minutes, the five or six calls that he repeatedly neglects to answer. This coming from a man who makes it a point to pick up the phone within the first three rings of her calling - and, between that and the strange way Martha had told her he'd sounded (with an added out-of-place "I love you" to really bring the oddness home), Beckett's on high alert.
It didn't make any sense. Gates had gone down too easily, especially for someone who was supposed to have taken a four-year hiatus from strangling blondes. And on the way over to the motel, her squad car's lights swirling overhead, a number of theories begin to scroll through Beckett's train of thought before settling on the scenario she'd managed to completely overlook in the process.
Jerry Tyson - the man who'd settled to a deal to gain early release on drug charges, the man who was so terrified of Gates that he was worried his acceptance of said deal meant being murdered on the inside - is the Triple Killer.
She couldn't have known that Tyson had gotten away with barely less than a minute to spare before the squad cars came roaring into the motel parking lot. Beckett has no idea what to expect when she ascends the stairs up to the room, gun drawn and at the ready. The room is dark, ominously so. Her heart lurches in her throat when the door bursts open under a blow from her boot. Ryan's on the floor and groaning, a bruise purpling his temple. Castle, tied to a chair, blinks, dazed, and turns away from the light as it spills abruptly into the room.
Dread melts into relief, though her eyes are still scanning around for any potentially lingering threat as the sound of Esposito's footsteps grow louder behind her. She holsters her gun and moves for the rope around Castle's wrists (green and white nylon, just like the others), swallowing back the lump in her throat.
"I'm so glad that you're okay," she murmurs.
Vast understatement.
-
Twenty minutes later, the team's done an entire sweep of the motel - but Tyson's gone.
Ryan's sitting in the back of the ambulance, putting on a brave face and refusing any medical treatment until Esposito literally threatens to strap him down onto the stretcher.
Beckett hasn't seen Castle since before the sweep started; now, coffee in hand (albeit crappy coffee from the 24-hour place next door), she performs a sweep of her own - and, eventually, recognizes a familiar silhouette sitting on a bench next to the motel swimming pool. It's uncovered, she notes, as she makes her way through the gate to join him. Never mind the fact that no one will be swimming on an October evening in New York. The water's illuminated from within, casting a blue pale over the series of emotions flickering over Castle's face.
She joins him. Hands him the coffee. Stares out into the still pool.
(I almost lost you today)
"Tell me something, Castle. Why did he let you live?"
The second is the five or six calls Beckett makes to Castle over the course of the next fifteen minutes, the five or six calls that he repeatedly neglects to answer. This coming from a man who makes it a point to pick up the phone within the first three rings of her calling - and, between that and the strange way Martha had told her he'd sounded (with an added out-of-place "I love you" to really bring the oddness home), Beckett's on high alert.
It didn't make any sense. Gates had gone down too easily, especially for someone who was supposed to have taken a four-year hiatus from strangling blondes. And on the way over to the motel, her squad car's lights swirling overhead, a number of theories begin to scroll through Beckett's train of thought before settling on the scenario she'd managed to completely overlook in the process.
Jerry Tyson - the man who'd settled to a deal to gain early release on drug charges, the man who was so terrified of Gates that he was worried his acceptance of said deal meant being murdered on the inside - is the Triple Killer.
She couldn't have known that Tyson had gotten away with barely less than a minute to spare before the squad cars came roaring into the motel parking lot. Beckett has no idea what to expect when she ascends the stairs up to the room, gun drawn and at the ready. The room is dark, ominously so. Her heart lurches in her throat when the door bursts open under a blow from her boot. Ryan's on the floor and groaning, a bruise purpling his temple. Castle, tied to a chair, blinks, dazed, and turns away from the light as it spills abruptly into the room.
Dread melts into relief, though her eyes are still scanning around for any potentially lingering threat as the sound of Esposito's footsteps grow louder behind her. She holsters her gun and moves for the rope around Castle's wrists (green and white nylon, just like the others), swallowing back the lump in her throat.
"I'm so glad that you're okay," she murmurs.
Vast understatement.
-
Twenty minutes later, the team's done an entire sweep of the motel - but Tyson's gone.
Ryan's sitting in the back of the ambulance, putting on a brave face and refusing any medical treatment until Esposito literally threatens to strap him down onto the stretcher.
Beckett hasn't seen Castle since before the sweep started; now, coffee in hand (albeit crappy coffee from the 24-hour place next door), she performs a sweep of her own - and, eventually, recognizes a familiar silhouette sitting on a bench next to the motel swimming pool. It's uncovered, she notes, as she makes her way through the gate to join him. Never mind the fact that no one will be swimming on an October evening in New York. The water's illuminated from within, casting a blue pale over the series of emotions flickering over Castle's face.
She joins him. Hands him the coffee. Stares out into the still pool.
(I almost lost you today)
"Tell me something, Castle. Why did he let you live?"