castle fanfiction, castle/beckett - the ends opening into new ends always (5/10).

[recycledstars]

Part III: Summer.

New York City. July, 1925.

Though she paid lip service to God as she had been raised, she wasn’t really one for fate or faith. It was a scepticism borne of necessity: the only way to rationalise a world at war and a personal tragedy in her young mind was to believe the universe was randomly cruel. She wasn’t alone in her grief. In January of 1919 there were lots of lost sons and fathers. She lost her own father too, though not to the war. She was the sole witness to a tragic love story and she saw how instantly it changed him. She believed in love, feared it, because she had watched it break Jim Beckett. After the loss of her mother living in her father’s house had been like living with more than one ghost. Will was a way out, travel-worn and world-weary though the war had made him, shaped him really. She had felt what she guessed she was supposed to feel, but there was no recklessness, no passion that she felt unable to control. It was safe, and it was a relief to have something in her life untouched by Johanna’s death.

But six years was a long time, especially the six years between seventeen and twenty-three. She had been tempered by age and experience, shaped by her mother’s death, her father’s drinking and her husband’s nightmares. They both longed for a world before the war for different reasons, and it had surprised her, how easy it was for two people who shared a bed and a home to become strangers. It was the sum of their collective demons she supposed. Will never talked about the war but she knew he had left part of the boy she had loved in France and it was only possible to love a memory for so long even if the associated habits persisted.

She knew plenty of men did it, had affairs, kept mistresses. Johanna had raised her to believe women should be treated equal to their male counterparts: a view society did not share in this particular realm. No one would bat an eye at a married man taking up with a young flapper but a married woman doing something similar was a punishable offense. Part of her rebelled against that double standard, but most of her was principled, and believed in honouring commitments. She still believed Will was a good man. And then there was the fear. In lots of ways it was exhilarating, to know she could feel sixteen again, with all the foolishness that entailed. Castle was fun, and she hadn’t been truly carefree in years. But it was more than that, though she made a point of denying it to herself regularly. She recognised something in his expression when she caught him staring at her sometimes. It was the unquestioning, maddening sort of love her father had for her mother, and it scared her. The strength of the pull and the unknown limits of the feeling drove her from it. It was too close to obsession, to madness. She was nothing if not composed. Still, it tugged at her, unbidden, and she knew that eventually it would overtake her reason. She had no idea how she would manage that when it came. Love, real love, had a tendency to make people brave or stupid depending on your perspective. For the most part, she tended to think it was the latter.

And then there was Will.

It was a tale as old as time; she was just ashamed to be a player in it.

For his part, Castle’s morals had always been accommodating. He had been experimenting with bending the rules to suit his purposes since he was a child and, having been co-parented by a dozen showgirls, the rules had been lax to begin with. Even when he was sent away to school, he had learned that the flash of his teeth and utilising his gift for words would cure most ills and solve most problems. By his estimation, it was only a minor indiscretion on her part, and as long as they never spoke of it, he could avoid any sense of guilt he might have. He did his best to quell any feelings the memory of the kiss evoked, though his subconscious made itself glaringly known in his writing. There were lots of torn up pages and hastily blacked out lines of dialogue between Nikki and her sidekick. June had been long without her, and he had tried to write to her daily. His desk was littered with forgotten drafts. He could never quite perfect the wording.

Then, on the fourth of July, she received a letter that had her halfway up the street before she quite realised her destination, or that she was breaking all her newly devised rules by doing so. The last time she had made the current journey, it had been a mild day in spring. The sunshine had been smiling down on the new life the snow had revealed, green shoots between cracks in the pavement and flowers starting to burst free of their buds on windowsills. Today it was hot and the sun was glowering down, not smiling. Sweat soaked into her hairline and the humidity was wreaking havoc on her curls. She had pulled them tight and pinned them higher than usual, leaving the nape of her neck free to catch what little breeze there was. The streets were crowded, lined with people celebrating, waving stars and stripes. It made her journey difficult. She weaved amongst the crowds, trying to keep to the shade as much as possible.

They hadn’t spoken in over a month when she knocked on his door, six weeks by his count - six very long, very hot weeks. Normally he took his mother and Alexis to the seaside in the summer, but this year he hadn’t wanted to leave the city, in case she found it in him to forgive him. For her part, she had been determined never to see him again, embarrassed and unsure how to address what had happened, but in the end, the pull of finding her mother’s killer overcame her sensibilities.

He opened the door to a waft of muggy late afternoon air and her shining face.

“Castle,” she greeted him.

“May I come in?” she asked, impatiently, after he gaped at her for several minutes.

“Yes,” he said, “Of course. Please, do.”

“I know you must be surprised to see me,” she followed him into his study, “But something came up, something to do with my mother’s murder and our investigation,” she wrung the envelope between her hands before she realised what she was doing. “Sorry, here. Read this. John Raglan wants to meet us.”

“After all this time you finally got through to him,” he was surprised, and took the letter from its envelope, skimming its contents. “Well ok. I’m glad you came,” he nodded to the seat across from him and she sat, “Do you want to go now?”

“I assume he delivered the letter in person,” she said, “It isn’t post-marked, which means he sent it today. I’d like to go as soon as possible, so he doesn’t have a chance to change his mind.”

Their detective lived in a two room apartment in a recently refurbished Civil War-era tenement building just off 14th Street in the East Village. When they reached the fifth floor, she raised her hand to knock before the door creaked, ominously. She looked at him sideways and held her finger to her lips. He nodded, pushing open the door.

“Hell-o?” she called, cautiously.

There was no answer.

The reason became apparent when they tiptoed into the room. Castle ducked into the bedroom off the hall to look for Raglan while she made for the kitchen. She stopped with her hand halfway to her mouth before she reached the doorway. Sitting in the a lone armchair in the centre of the room was John Raglan, with several pints of blood dripping from the single bullet wound in his chest. It was pooling on the floor boards, along with a pile of scattered duck feathers.

“Castle!” she called, “I don’t think you’re going to find him in there.”

“Why? Oh,” he trailed off when he rounded her shoulder, coming face to face with Raglan’s corpse.

“Is he actually dead?” she asked, “If he left that note today, it can’t have been too long. I didn’t want to touch him though. The blood is everywhere.”

“No he’s dead,” he pointed to his eyes, “His eyes are too wide and with that amount of blood, I’d say it was pretty quick.”

She looked away, “We should look around before we call the police. I know Detective Ryan can usually get us all their information anyway, but what if he can’t this time? Raglan contacted me out of nowhere today, of all days. Why? There must be some clue in all this mess.”

He nodded and wiggled his fingers, “As long as we’re careful about leaving prints. They’ll check for those. You start in the other room. I’ll work in here.”

He was trying to spare her the unblinking gaze of the corpse, she knew. Ordinarily she’d think it silly, superstitious and impractical, but with Raglan, a man who had wanted to tell her something just hours before, she was grateful. She had the odd sense his dead eyes were following her.

“What could be so important they would kill you over it?” she murmured to the body as she passed. Castle was already busy going through the piles of newsprint and mail the deceased had apparently been hoarding.

She passed into the bedroom and looked for any hint of something out of place. It was, in contrast to the living room, meticulously neat. The bed was neatly made, unslept in, and aside from a thin layer of dust blanketing the nightstand, everything appeared to be in order. There was only one photograph in the entire room, a picture of a woman and two children. When she turned it over, it was dated - 1915. She doubted they lived here now, or had in many years.

There was nothing in the dresser, or on the top shelf of the closet. She found his police badge in a shoebox, along with a pistol. The drawers of the nightstand were empty apart from one or two questionable cartoons and clothes. She barely saw it when she lifted the mattress. In fact, she might have missed it entirely if she hadn’t struggled so much she had to kneel on the floor to lift it. There was a tuft of stuffing escaping from the smallest of tears. She shouldered the load and managed to manoeuvre a hand in to see what was hidden there. All she found was a small notebook, barely big enough to fit in her palm, and another faded photograph. This one was of the same woman, but her shoulders were bare. She was wrapped in a sheet. Kate replaced the photograph and the mattress, and bent her head beneath the bedframe to retrieve the notebook from where it had fallen between the slats.

It contained notes, names and amounts which she presumed represented monetary transactions. They didn’t mean much to her, but she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt and dusted her hands. Her pristine gloves had picked up some of the room’s dust. She kept them on in spite of their dirtiness.

In the other room, Castle had found a pile of crumpled up letters.

“He wrote back to you every time,” he told her, “Warning you away from this investigation with various degrees of urgency, but he obviously never sent any of them.”

“Well look what happened when he did,” she said quietly, gesturing to the body in the leather armchair.

“I didn’t find anything else that might be useful, except for this,” he held up a few newspaper clippings. “They were tucked into his copy of Crime and Punishment. I looked at it because it was so worn compared to his other novels.”

She leafed through the pile, “So he was onto Coonan as well. He’s kept the reports of every stabbing in the city in 1921.”

“And did you see the last one?”

She brought it to the top and stared. It was the same woman from the photographs in the bedroom. “Mrs John Raglan,” she read the caption beneath the picture. “They killed his wife?”

“So it would seem.”

“I found pictures of her in the bedroom,” she was absently pulling her mother’s ring up and down the length of the chain as she considered this new information. She handed the wad of news clippings back to him and reached into her pocket for the notebook, “Along with this.”

She deposited her find into his waiting palm, looking at his face expectantly as he poured over it.

“Do you recognise any of these names?” he asked her.

“Not a one,” she shook her head. “Did you look in the kitchen?”

“No, I didn’t get a chance. I was reading those articles. I’ll call Ryan while you have a quick look around.”

She heard him informing the detective of the murder as she opened the cupboards and searched between jars of forgotten food for any further clues. Finding nothing, she returned to the scene of the crime to find him wiping the telephone down.

“We should get out of here,” she said.

He nodded. “Ryan’s people will be here in twenty minutes.”

They left the door as they found it and didn’t stop until they were standing in the street. The crowds had thinned slightly with the sinking sun.

“I noticed you still have the chalkboards,” she was carrying the copy of Crime and Punishment under her arm, “We should update them, sort through this new information.”

“Your husband won’t miss you?”

“He’s working. The holiday is a busy day for them. Did you have plans with Alexis?”

“They’ll keep. She might be a little young to run around with sparklers anyway.”

When they arrived at his house, his mother was fussing in the kitchen over something that smelled exotic and Alexis was sitting in the front room with her nose pressed to the window, waiting for the first of the street fireworks.

“Mother’s been on a quest to master Chinese cooking,” he told her, explaining the smell. “One of women at the theatre, an immigrant, gave her the recipes. I hope you’re adventurous.”

She was about to respond when his daughter launched herself about his middle in a whirl of white stockings and red curls.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” Alexis sang, “You’re home, you’re home. I want to watch the fireworks.”

“It’s not dark yet pumpkin,” he hugged her close and lifted her off the ground, spinning her in a full circle. “And I have some work to do with Mrs Sorenson. Say hello.”

Alexis gave her a very formal nod and said, with an earnestness only a child could muster, “Hello Mrs Sorenson, please come in.”

Kate had to fight a laugh, “Hello Alexis.”

“You promise we can light the sparklers after dinner?” the child turned back to her father, who bent to her eye level and nodded solemnly, “But only if you’re a good girl.”

Alexis smiled sweetly, “I’m always a good girl.”

Her father laughed and ruffled her hair, ruining the good work of her grandmother had put in to tame her fiery curls. “Ah, that’s my girl. We’ll have a tongue on you yet. Why don’t you go see if your Gram needs help in the kitchen?”

“Already did,” she crossed her arms, “She shooed me.”

“Well,” he reached under her arms to find a well-known ticklish spot and wriggled his fingers, menacingly. She writhed with laughter. “If you promise to be very quiet, you can bring your book into the study and watch by that window for any fireworks.”

The little girl tore off to find her latest reading material, the thrill of being allowed in a usually forbidden room driving her fast footsteps.

“Everyone’s home,” he turned back to his companion and shrugged apologetically, “So there might be a few distractions.”

Kate was staring after his daughter thoughtfully. “That’s all right,” she murmured, then followed him into the dark study. He flipped the light switch, illuminating the room. Along the right wall, their chalkboards sat undisturbed since he had first shown them to her. She strode purposefully over to them and appraised the sum of their work cautiously. He wisely chose to remain behind his desk.

They worked efficiently, Kate as scribe, adding the information uncovered in Raglan’s apartment under his name with a line connecting him to Johanna Beckett’s murder and another to the isolated name of his partner. They only got halfway through the newspaper clippings. Alexis had inherited a fraction of her father’s curiosity that bordered on nosiness, and while she was more polite, she still had lots of questions. And before Castle was done thinking of age-appropriate answers, Martha announced dinner was served.

Kate tried to make an excuse to leave, but they were only half-done with the work and she wouldn’t be missed at home; add the fact that Martha could be awfully persuasive when it came to hospitality and her resistance was token. She found she quite enjoyed Chinese food, even with the added challenge of eating with chopsticks. (They were a gift from Martha’s friend, and the actress was seemingly an expert.) They were only half-finished eating when, with the first crack of fireworks, Alexis was gone from her seat despite her grandmother's scolding and at the front window.

Later, Castle retrieved the box of sparklers from its hiding place and beckoned his daughter out onto the porch, showing her how to hold the flammable end away from her. He demonstrated once, then lit Alexis’. It fizzled to life in her hands, and in her surprise she let it fall to the ground. He replaced it with another. This time, she held it at arm’s length and clamoured down the stairs into the street to play with the other children.

Kate was watching from the doorway, a silhouette against the well-lit hall. Castle waved her over. “Come on, you can have one too if you’d like.”

She shook her head no, but joined him on the stairs. They sat a respectable distance apart and watched his daughter trailing coloured embers behind her.

When the fireworks began in earnest several streets over, he called Alexis back and she dragged him inside and up the stairs by an impatient hand. Martha ushered Kate along with them, into her bedroom on the upper floor. He had already opened the windows to the street and was sitting with his daughter cradled in his lap on a window seat. Alexis’ legs were hanging out the window, drumming against the brownstone in excitement, and her hands were pressed against her ears in anticipation. He looked back at Kate and patted the space next to Alexis.

“Am I intruding on your tradition?” she hesitated.

“Not at all,” he smiled at her over Alexis’ head, “You’re always welcome.”

At that, the first roman candles burst not one street over, a series of loud cracks followed by golden sparks fading to smoke against the skyline. Kate sat, properly at first, and they watched Catherine wheels paint the sky with colour. She relaxed after the first few rounds of sound and colour though, pulling her knees up beneath her skirt to sit more comfortably on the window seat. He watched more of her face than he did of the light display, though she was too distracted to notice; she stared with the same wonder as Alexis did at the sky. The neighbourhood put on a fine show for nearly a half hour, including a sky rocket that burst just above his roof, fired off almost directly below them.

When there were only firecrackers left, he stood and pulled Alexis into his arms, declaring it time for bed. The child protested only feebly; face already drooping into his shoulder. He excused himself and left Kate with his mother, who was fanning them both with a paper fan she’d stolen from the theatre. They chatted amiably about nothing in particular until something she said reminded the actress of a show she’d worked on in her travelling troupe days.

(“BC, as I like to call them,” she joked behind her hand, “Before Castle.”

Kate grinned.)

The story flowed freely into the next, and Kate found herself entirely charmed by the older woman with her interesting life. She’d left home at fifteen, unhappy with the idea of marrying the son of a wealthy family from Connecticut that her father had business dealings with, and had made a life for herself almost single-handedly. Thirty years later she was back in New York, two marriages and as many divorces and a small fortune behind her, with an adult son and a more legitimate theatre company to her name. Completely accidentally, Martha Rodgers was a model women’s rights activist in Kate Sorenson’s eyes; she had lived the life she wanted to live and didn’t apologise to anyone for it. There was something admirable about that; it took a lot of courage.

Kate was just promising to attend Martha’s next production when Castle reappeared in the doorway. Martha gracefully excused herself when she saw her son. She pulled him into the brightly lit hallway before he had a chance to say anything and swatted him with the fan. He turned wide-eyed to ask what warranted the assault, but never got the chance.

“If you’re thinking of using your family to charm her I’ve got news for you kiddo; that woman is smarter than you, and don’t you ever forget it.”

“I wasn’t!” he was affronted by the suggestion, “I. Mother! She’s married.”

Martha waved a finger at him, “And don’t you forget that either.”

“I would never.”

“Richard, the way you were staring at her… I know that look.”

“Well a look never hurt.”

“Well, make sure you look with your eyes and not your hands.”

A melodramatic line about looking with his heart came to mind. His mother probably would have appreciated it, but he kept it to himself. He wasn’t ready to become a hack.

“I always do,” he informed her primly, trying to maintain an air of insult as he re-entered the bedroom.

“I’m sorry to get so distracted from the things we found in Raglan’s apartment,” he said, joining her again at the window sill. He sat beside her, further away this time. She let her hand trace the space between them absently.

“Couldn’t be helped,” she looked over at him with a small smile, “Besides, you have a good view.”

She gestured to the skyline which was still intermittently lit by exploding bursts of colour. Her fingers were clutching at her mother’s ring again. He wondered if she knew that she did it.

“What’s that?” he asked on impulse, reaching out to take it from her hand. The touch lingered and he saw her falter for a second, before she pulled her hand away quickly, leaving the gold band with its single diamond resting in his palm.

“It was my mother’s,” she said simply. “It’s… it’s an heirloom in my father’s family. The oldest son has given it to his wife since before anyone can remember. I ruined the tradition,” she was pensive. He looked over, questioning.

“Oh, by being a girl,” she explained, “And I was their only child. There were … complications. My mother couldn’t have any more children after I was born. But that never seemed to bother my father. He carried on all his traditions through me just the same as if I was a son.”

“Is that how you learnt how to shoot?”

She laughed. “Among other things. My mother was meant to give this to me on my wedding day,” she leant over and traced the band with her finger, “But she died before Will and I were married.”

“Why don’t you wear it?” he let her take it back from his hand and slip it down her front.

“I don’t know,” she held it flat against her chest with her palm, “Because she was meant to give it me, she was meant to be there. And at the time, it seemed like wearing it would just be a reminder that she wasn’t.”

“And now?”

“Well now I have this one,” she answered lightly, over the sound of one last round of firecrackers from the street. The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder. It stung at his eyes and in his throat. He caught the wink of a diamond on her hand as she waved her fingers at him.

“It’s late,” he stood and offered her a hand, “We can finish sorting through our new clues ctomorrow.”

She stood and smoothed her skirt, confused by his abrupt dismissal. “Ok. Goodnight Castle.”

“Goodnight.”

She missed his usual until tomorrow and let herself be confused by it all the way home.

--

The next day was a Sunday and Sunday meant church. Church meant a blue dress so light it was almost white with a modest hemline and far too many tiny buttons along her back which required a contortionist’s effort to fasten. She was distracted during the service, gloved hands gripping the hymn book in her hands absently. The wooden pews were hard and uncomfortable, no matter which way she twisted and turned. She had the strong feeling that she was being watched. She glanced around once, furtively - there was no need to give the old ladies more to talk about - but couldn’t see any one’s eyes on her. She turned next to her, to observe Will, but he was concentrating on the preacher’s words. Stilled by guilt, she closed the hymn book and folded her hands and tried to still her undevout limbs. Even the fear of God, which was more habit than the product of an intellectual belief, couldn’t quell the hairs on the back of her neck. It wasn’t an uncomfortable scrutiny though; it felt familiar. And with that, she whirled around and caught him looking, six rows over and across the room. He smirked when their eyes met and nodded ever so slightly.

She gave him a glare, and stubbornly refused to look back for several minutes.

When he caught her looking back a second time, she actually felt herself blush. She was furious at everything for several minutes; at him for following her here, at her traitorous biology for giving way to her embarrassment, at her pride and at the stupid service which was moving with all the speed of a lazy snail. She took a few deeper breaths, and tapped her foot, impatiently.

Then, determined to ignore him, she tried to focus on the words of the bishop, instead of just mumbling the automatically appropriate responses at the correct times. As a motivator, it turned out the obstinacy in her nature was more powerful than her faith. She briefly wondered what that said about her as a Christian. Nevertheless, she managed to avoid his eyes until after the processional hymn when Will turned to the family behind them and greeted one of his friends. She shot one last, particularly scathing glare in Castle’s direction and shook her head firmly.

The message, she thought, was clear. Don’t talk to me here.

She silently prayed he understood her. It was the place for it, after all.

Most niceties and social graces were reserved for outside the church so at length they joined the crowd of people pouring into the aisles. She was halfway to the door when she felt a hand on her arm, pulling her aside.

She looked around. Will was no longer behind her; in fact, Castle had quite effectively yanked her into one of the many alcoves in the cathedral. The sun shone through the stained glass window above them. She pulled her arm free of his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re mad,” he looked suitably chastened; “I hoped you wouldn’t be mad.”

“Castle what if someone sees? Don’t you know that if they’d run information through church-going women, the war would have been over in months?”

“Well, just,” he groped around at the small pile of candles in front of the stand in front of them and fumbled with a matchbook, “Pretend you’re lighting a candle. I’m told people do that. It could be for your mother.”

She looked at him sideways, feeling the unique blend of frustrated and touched he always managed to evoke. “Fine. That doesn’t answer my question though. What are you doing here? And don’t tell me you’re here for the service, I’ve never seen you before.”

“We’re an equal opportunity family when it comes to religion,” he shrugged, “Which means that usually we ignore all of them equally.”

“Well then?”

“I came to talk to you,” he said, like it was obvious, lighting his own candle and placing it on the stand next to hers, “We never finished talking about Raglan last night.”

“Well I was escorted out in a hurry,” she followed his lead when he clasped his hands and bent his head as though praying, though they probably looked anything but subtle and completely ridiculous. His attempts at subterfuge appeased her slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he sounded genuinely contrite, “That was rude of me.”

“Well. You still shouldn’t have followed me here. It’s hardly the time or the place to continue talking about a murder.”

He shook his head once. “Maybe my candle is for Raglan.”

“If you’re going to light one for each of our victims, you’d better find a quarter or two to put in that collection box. Besides, if he was murdered, he must have been involved somehow.”

“Even murderers, if that’s even what Raglan was, deserve candles Mrs Sorenson.”

“For a self-confessed secularist, that’s very Christian of you Mr Castle.”

“Or just very decent of me. You’re right though, this isn’t the time or the place. I’ve been thinking though, McAllister was Raglan’s partner. I’d wager there’s a good chance they worked together in their off-duty pursuits too, but that aside, he’s still the only person I can think of who might be able to tell us more about Raglan until Ryan works his magic.”

“And how are you suggesting we find McAllister?”

“I’ve been practicing my poker face.”

“That place again?” she tapped her toes against the floor, “I can’t go tonight. Will leaves at the end of the week.”

“Speaking of, you’d better be on your way. End of the week… so I’ll see you Saturday?”

“I…” she hesitated, “Ok. And you’ll let me know if Ryan finds anything in the meantime?”

“Of course.”

She paused in the archway, hand trailing along the stone walls of the church. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stand here a while longer.”

She left him bent over their candles.

--

The oppressive heat of the day had waned slightly, leaving a thin layer of dew over grass, leaves, railings and car roofs. He’d had to wipe it off the windshield. The haphazard path of his hands across the glass left their view of the dark street framed by a glistening layer of moisture. The alleyway was empty as it had been for the two hours they had spent watching the exit of McAllister’s building.

She was wearing a blue-green dress embroidered with pink roses. It had a fashionable hemline that made it difficult to sit both modestly and comfortably. She adjusted her skirt and the leather of the seats crunched beneath her.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” she absently picked at a stray thread sticking out of her upper thigh.

“Just a few more minutes,” he promised.

He’d been promising for half an hour. She’d started to seriously doubt his word.

She looked over to tell him so but paused at the comical sight of him peering through the same binoculars ladies used at the opera. She allowed herself one huff of air that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“What?” he looked at her sideways.

“Nothing,” she turned back to what they’d long ago decided was McAllister’s window. The lights were still on, but she couldn’t see anything. “Do those actually work?”

“Well enough,” he pulled them from his face and turned to her. Their faces were closer than he realised and for a brief second, she thought he was going to close the distance. She recoiled at the idea, pulling back slightly, but her heart betrayed her, picking up the pace of its rhythmic pumping. She made a face at herself which he thought was for him.

“I’m sorry to bore you,” he managed to sound the slightest bit wounded.

“A necessary evil,” she told him. “I’m just not sure McAllister isn’t doing exactly what I’d like to be doing right now.”

“Oh? What’s that?” he gave her the wicked look that had become so familiar to her. She didn’t have the heart to tell him he had a wildly overactive imagination in that department. Besides, it was better to keep him guessing. She was honest though; his stomach for scandalous remarks was much stronger than hers.

“Reading in bed,” she said over her shoulder at him, turning her body to look out the window.

“I could tell you a story,” he offered.

“Another one of your theories?”

“No, I’m still working on that. But I do this for a living. I’m sure I could think of something.”

“By all means, go ahead.”

“On the brilliant morning following a tempestuous night, a body is uncovered on a country estate...”

“Always murder with you,” she interrupted. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the literary and sometimes real fascination with murder?”

“Well, what else is there?” he asked, “Seriously though. There’s love, but what could I write about love that hasn’t been written before? There’s sex, but the censors don’t like that. And then there’s death.”

“What about life?”

“No one can really write about life,” he said, “That’s what happens when even writers aren’t paying attention. Besides, I don’t write about murder because I’m fascinated with death, no, quite the opposite. I write about death because it’s a way for me to write about how the living cope when we’re reminded of our inescapable fate.”

“And love?”

“All stories are love stories,” he was being smart with her, but in that irritating way he had of being right when he did it, “Inescapable fate remember?”

“You really think it’s that simple?”

“There are truths to our existence, my little detective,” he’d taken to calling her that. She supposed that as pet names went, it was better than honey. “And one is that nothing is simple. But love, real love, sure, that’s inescapable. Even when it seems impossible, you look back and see that the universe lays down its obstacles and its aides at exactly the right moments and the sum of your life has led you to a point.”

“And that point?”

“We all control our own destinies,” he shrugged and turned away from her, “As much as we can. There’s always a point where you make a choice. Sometimes that feels inevitable, I think that’s especially true when you really love. But it can be complicated. There are other choices, honour and duty and justice, to name a few.”

“What would you choose?”

“Oh,” he looked pensive, “I’ve never been one to deny myself an indulgence. I’ve chosen love many times, probably when I shouldn’t have.”

“Alexis’ mother?”

“Mmm, among others. I won’t tell you. It will insult your principles to hear it and it’ll insult my pride when you lecture me. Suffice to say even Ryan teases me about being sentimental.”

“Really?” she gave him a disbelieving look.

“I know right? It’s embarrassing. Ryan, of honey milk infamy, thinks I’m the romantic.”

“Are you?”

“Oh no,” he shook his head, “My dear, you will have to try harder for that confession.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she said, peering out to see the nary a shadow grace the window of McAllister’s apartment. Nothing had changed.

He grinned at her, appreciatively. He always liked it when she threw a proper innuendo his way.

“There’s no need to pretend to be shallow,” she said, settling back in her seat.

“We all have our armour, the things we hide behind.”

“I,” she hesitated, her senses halting the sentence on her tongue. You don’t have to hide from me. “What happens next in your story Castle?”

He told her, weaving the tale expertly. It was slightly Shakespearean - he’d borrowed almost all of the plot from Macbeth - and when she didn’t call him on it he realised she was starting to fall asleep.

“Should I take you home?” he asked her, nudging her awake gently.

“No, no, what if he leaves?” she blinked up at the window, which remained lit and empty.

“I can wait,” he offered.

“No, I’ll sleep now. Wake me when you get tired.”

She pulled a shawl from her purse and wrapped it around her bare shoulders. “Well, continue your story. I’m just dying to know if the president’s daughter uncovers her husband’s treachery.”

“Oh you know she will.”

He talked until her head dropped against the back of the seat then unconsciously slid closer, unable to resist pushing the wave of her hair behind her ear. He pulled his hand back almost immediately but she didn’t stir. His momentary alarm faded, and he settled down to watch her sleep, keeping one eye on McAllister’s apartment.

He’d come to the startling realisation he was completely in love with her. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened. Certainly, he’d been fond of her since the moment he’d met her. She’d been a puzzle - a beautiful puzzle with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, all qualities he prized in a woman. But it was more than fascination, more than fondness, and it had been for some time. He had realised it when she tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. It was sudden, but as soon as it struck him he felt as though he must have always loved her. He’d opened his mouth to tell her too, but then remembered everything, her husband, her mother’s murder and most importantly, the way the reality of their situation might sting worse than the slap he was sure would follow any confession on his part. So instead, he contented himself with trying to please her in small ways, devoting his attentions to her mother’s murder and his book, since she had become an avid reader.

She made a sleepy noise of content and shifted, so her head rested against his shoulder. He looked down, considered his options and decided letting her kill him when she woke up was worth it. He let his head rest against her hair until McAllister’s light went out.

--

The next morning, she blinked the sleep out of her eyes and stretched her stiff neck until she felt the resistance of his head. Surprised, she cautiously pulled back, careful not to wake him until she had shuffled to a more respectable distance. The windshield was once again covered in perspiration. She whacked him in the shoulder to rouse him.

“Huh, what?” he sat up and looked reproachful. “What was that for?”

“You snore,” she said pettily.

“I do not.”

“How would you know? Besides, you were meant to wake me.”

“Sorry. Do you think he’s still there?”

Her stomach growled. “I don’t know, but I’m starving.”

“There’s a bakery down the street. Wait here, I’ll be back in a second.”

He was out the door before she had a chance to protest, but he darted back to hand her something. She looked over to see the binoculars being thrust in her direction.

“Fat lot of good that’ll do,” she muttered to herself, getting out of the car to wipe the windshield with her shawl.

He returned comically balancing two ceramic cups of black coffee and a paper bag between his hands.

“What on earth have you got there?” she called through the window.

“Breakfast,” he grinned. “Now open the door for me.”

She obliged, and took the cup he handed her.

“There was a diner opposite the bakery,” he said when he’d slid back into the driver’s seat. He lay the paper bag between them. “I convinced them to let me keep the crockery for a generous tip.”

She inspected the spoils of his journey quizzically, and, finding the bag full of donuts, procured herself a sugared treat delicately. “For breakfast? Really?”

He picked one out and dipped it in his coffee. “Why not?”

“It’s like eating popcorn for dinner,” she ate it anyway, “But I’m too hungry to care. I didn’t see McAllister. Maybe he likes to sleep in.”

That proved to be untrue though. Their policeman emerged shortly after they’d finished their breakfast. She put the empty coffee cups in the paper bag and lay it at her feet as he started the car. They lurched forward, following McAllister at the agonising pace required to keep a respectable distance. Luckily, there was no traffic behind them. She felt the strong urge to fidget as they did, but settled for clenching her fingers together just once; then, again, she was the picture of composure.

They were both thinking two steps ahead, wondering where McAllister could be going. She searched the crowds for the back of his jacket and held it, picturing the street.

“The station,” she exclaimed, just as he did.

“Well we’d better ditch this car,” he said.

She was already gathering her things into her lap and as soon as he’d slowed to an almost stop, she opened the door and fell onto her heels, running after McAllister. He hastened his movements to catch her, and it became a comical three-part chase worthy of their own silent film. He could imagine the pianist hammering on the keys as he wove through the crowds. He lost sight of her after he ran down the steps into the subway station, but continued his pace until a fierce tug at his jacket pulled him against the wall. She jabbed a finger in McAllister’s direction.

“He’s buying a ticket for the 4 train,” she informed him, “But we have to be careful. He might recognise us.”

“The Sea Beach Line? I’ll buy us tickets. And it’s fine if he does recognise us, so long as it doesn’t look like we’re following him.”

“Sure, and you’re about as inconspicuous as a bull in a china shop, so I see no problem with that plan,” she muttered under her breath, but he was already off to make the purchase. He came back with two tickets to the end of the line and a newspaper to loiter behind. “To make us feel like proper detectives,” he told her.

She rolled her eyes.

McAllister took the train all the way to Coney Island. They followed him down Stillwell Avenue to Surf Avenue, past Feltman’s down to the Bowery. Ahead, McAllister side-stepped a freak advertising a side show and slipped into Steeplechase Park.

The fairground was loud and littered with popcorn and cigarette butts. Children, sticky with cotton candy, ran underfoot, screaming from one diversion to the next. Jaunty music advertised each attraction in turn. Beyond the Ferris wheel was a small hot dog stand, and beyond that, McAllister had taken pause. He was smoking a cigarette. They paused and observed him through the gaps in the metal, the rotating cars periodically swaying through and obscuring their view. She pressed up against the fence surrounding the wheel, hands gripping the metal bars, and craned her neck until he pulled her back, lightly, by the top of her dress.

“You’ll lose part of your face doing that,” he told her, “And it’s a nice face. We wouldn’t want that.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, good and proper, suddenly overcome by the urge to be childish.

He nearly laughed. “Look, we can see well enough from here. No use getting closer and spooking him.”

“I suppose you're right,” she conceded, unhappily.

“Oh look, who have we here?” he remarked, drawing her attention back to their mark. McAllister was meeting a man. Their body language was terse.

“Obviously not good news,” Castle remarked.

Kate nodded. The face of McAllister’s companion went so cold upon hearing whatever was related, she imagined a chill down her back. The man was stern featured, with a crop of red hair cut in military fashion and a severe beard. He looked incapable of happiness. He did smile at McAllister after a fashion, but it was more of a sneer. She tensed when he reached into his jacket. Castle and McAllister mirrored her stance.

When he began to run, she was already chasing him. Castle was behind her again. They pushed through the line to ride the Ferris wheel roughly, yelling apologies in their wake. The man had a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants; she could see it when his jacket flapped up behind him in the wind. His hand was on it, but he had yet to draw the weapon.

She had to run with her weight on her tip toes lest her heels sink into the soft ground. It made her slower than she might have been. Castle caught up, slowing to a trot beside her. She picked up her pace.

McAllister and his hunter took a sharp right, down past a series of ring toss games and clowns with open mouths and rotating heads. The various tunes emanating from tinny speakers grew louder in her ears as she passed them, in pursuit. The men they were chasing pushed several children out of the line-up for a haunted house. By the time they made it inside, there was no sign of them. Castle yelped, girlishly, when a skeleton fell from the ceiling to greet them. She looked back, lips twitching, but refrained from commenting. Pushing through the cobwebs, they were heralded into the next room by cackles of ghoulish laughter and one, angry expletive yelled from the room beyond. She threw her hands out to steady herself when they found themselves on a bridge surrounding by a rolling cylinder. Clawing their way across, they faltered down a set of stairs until finally, they found themselves in a hall of mirrors. She stumbled forward but found her hands pressing against glass. Disorientated, she felt along the surface, looked down at her feet then back at her companion. Castle was transfixed by their warped reflections.

“Where’d they go?” he asked her, absently.

She grabbed his sleeve, “This way.”

They fumbled through, finally finding the steps leading through a curtain and into the light. Castle tapped her shoulder as they descended quietly, gesturing behind him, indicating that he would go first. She gave him a look, and peered out through the curtain into the daylight. The attraction emptied into a grassy row, lined with closed attractions. It was deserted, and surprisingly quiet. She held her hand up to the glare of the sun and inspected the neat rows of tents extending in both directions.

“Which way now?” her companion asked.

Overhead, a gull cried and drew her attention to the soft roll of the ocean in the distance. “I don’t know. We must be heading away from the park,” she said. “You go that way and I’ll go this way.”

“I don’t think we should split up,” he argued.

“I…” she was about to protest, and vigorously, when the crack of a gunshot down the hill a ways drew their attention.

Castle drew his finger to his lips. She nodded. Pressed against the side of the silent amusements, either broken down or newly ready to be unveiled, they approached the source of the sound. They dramatically rounded several corners to find themselves still alone until finally, they found themselves at a gap in the fence. He pulled back the wire and ushered her through. The roads around this part of the village were quieter. Most of the tourist attractions were closer to the main boardwalk or the subway station. Her heels seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.

It made them both uneasy.

They crossed the street and were unsure of how to proceed until she pointed wildly at a large blood stain. The trail led down a narrow alley, which was deserted but for McAllister’s body at the end of its length. He had slumped back against a dumpster and slid to the floor, leaving a dramatic trail of blood in his wake. It had been recent; the blood hadn’t dried. Kate covered her mouth with her hand, but didn’t flinch. She stepped closer, peering down at the body. Castle lingered behind her.

“Don’t,” he said. “He’s definitely dead.”

“I know,” she looked back over her shoulder, bent at the waist, “I want to see if he had anything interesting on him.”

“You’ll get blood on your gloves.”

She swiftly removed them, and carefully peeled back McAllister’s jacket. A gurgle of air escaped his dead lungs as she searched his body. Castle looked away. Her fortitude wasn’t in vain though, and she emerged clutching a single scrap of paper containing an address.

“What do you think it is?” she asked him.

He took it from her and watched as she wiped her fingers against the dead man’s collar. When they were clean, she replaced her gloves.

“I don’t know. It’s in New York though.”

“So?” she looked over at him, “Back we go?”

“We’ll get the next train,” he agreed.

They set off back towards the fairground at a brisk pace, the page stuffed firmly into her purse.

The bullet came from behind them. She jumped at the sound. It whistled over her head and shattered a window. Castle pulled her to the ground. They fell, hard. She felt the protest of her knees as the gravel tore through her stockings and into her skin.

He pulled at her hand.

She fought to her feet and ignored the sting of the fall, shuffling along pressed to the side of the ride.

“Come on,” he urged her onward.

She followed, blindly. They were running outright now, still low to the ground.

“I couldn’t tell where it came from,” he told her, “But when we get to the open ground, run as fast as you can when I tell you.”

They paused for cover behind a car and he searched the windows overhead for any sign of the shooter. “He couldn’t have much range,” he continued, musing out loud. “It was a hand gun that killed McAllister, not a sniper’s rifle. And I can’t see him. Come on. Go.”

He let go of her hand and she lost track of him for a few moments, sprinting with a hammering heart across the road and through the gap in the fence and across the expanse of grass between it and the fairground proper. There was the crack of shots behind them. One whizzed past her ear close enough that she felt it. She didn’t stop running. He was at her back when they reached the row of deserted attractions. He pulled her by the shoulder back through the rows until they were facing the summer crowds again, backs pressed against the stairs that led to the entrance of the house of horrors they had run through earlier. She found her breath coming quickly and took a few deep pulls of air to steady it.

He looked down at her, panting himself, eyes wide. “He must have seen us.”

“He didn’t follow us,” she chanced a look back the way they had come.

“No,” he agreed, “I expect he shot at us from quite a distance when we ran across the street. From the looks of McAllister he had decent aim too, so that’s probably all that saved us.”

She nodded, dumb with the thrill of fear, her hands still behind her back and pressed against the splintering wood of the attraction.

“Kate!” he said suddenly, sounding more than alarmed. “You’ve got blood on you.”

“I,” she pressed her hand to her stomach, “It’s not mine. It must be McAllister’s.”

“Are you sure?” he reached over and felt along her bodice, “You don’t feel faint?”

“I’m fine,” she reiterated as he pulled her against him in a brief hug. His hand smoothed over her hair and she froze, unsure of how to respond, as he held her under his chin. He released her just as quickly as he’d grabbed her and took two steps back.

“I’m sorry,” he stared at his feet. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you because of me.”

“Don’t be silly,” she folded her arms, “I’d be here with or without you. You probably saved my life just now.”

“We should get out of here before that fella gets it into his head to come looking for us.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “I’d quite like to get home.”

He stared down at the stain on her dress. “I’ll have to buy you a new outfit. There’s no way it won’t draw attention, catching the subway with that on you.”

She shook her head and brandished several yards of fabric from her purse. He wondered how they all fit. “I brought a shawl. That ought to cover it.”

She arranged it less-than-fashionably, but so it covered her entire middle. She nodded for him to appraise her work. When he gave his approval absent-mindedly, she reached over and snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Come now, we’re hitting on all six after today. The worst that’s happened is I’ve torn my stockings. Stop fretting.”

“We were nearly shot,” he said, “How can you be so calm? What about my mother and Alexis?”

She suddenly felt incredibly ashamed. She’d been so busy distracting him from his concern for her that she hadn’t even thought about his family, or him. She let her hand rest against his arm, “We’re fine. It could have been worse, but it wasn’t. Let’s just be grateful for that and go home.”

They rode the subway back to the city in silence. She was searching for words and he was arranging them for the page in his head. He was aching for his daughter, she could see it on his face, so she told him she would walk home. The apartment was empty. She slipped out of her shoes at the front door and pulled off her stockings. Barefoot, she carried them into the kitchen and buried them in the trash. She went into the bathroom and ran the water until it scalded. The shawl was salvageable she thought, unwinding the cloth and inspecting the underside for blood. The stain would soak out. Her dress, on the other hand - she turned side to side, inspecting the damage in the mirror - well, she could hardly make it worse. She tested the bath water with her hand and stepped in, fully clothed. The water turned to rusty red as she lay back, dress heavy with water and scraped knees stinging, and closed her eyes.

--
Read Part III(b) here.