100. Losing all you've ever known

Castle is even less happy when Dr Burke says Goodbye than he was before the psychiatrist rang. Beckett’s drunken meanderings on the subject of disappearance had been quite terrifying enough when she had been too drunk to do anything about them and he had been there to stop her. The thought that she might be thinking the same thing stone cold sober and with no limits whatsoever on her ability to act on her thinking is spine-chilling. He’d thought that she’d go back to the precinct. Now he’s sure she hasn’t. She could be anywhere.

But surely she will go home, tonight? Won’t she? He can still go round and explain. Can’t he?

Suddenly he has to check. He dials her phone. Straight to voicemail. He doesn’t leave a message.

When he’s tried twice more, and it’s gone straight to voicemail every time, he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Even having his call declined would be better than this. Even being blocked would be better than this. At least that way he’d know she’s still there.

A troubling thought enters his head. He does have a way to try to find her. He could… he could ask O’Leary. But if her phone’s switched off… or dead… that won’t work. O’Leary could try to track her car. It’s… that would be nuclear. If she wants to disappear – he doesn’t have the right to stop her, or to find her, or to do anything.

Anything he does to find her will only prove that he’s trying to make her do what he wants. Trying to fit her to his mould. Making demands. He can’t do anything, he can’t try to find her, he can only try to call and try to go to her apartment.

He has a sudden, blinding realisation of how Jim Beckett must feel, and is bitterly sorry for his hard words to him. He’s now equally in the dark. Except he, at least, knows why. Jim doesn’t even have that. Not that it’s any consolation at all. Six hours of this is already killing him. Jim’s had weeks of it.

It’s nearly six thirty. He’s wasted the whole latter part of the afternoon worrying and fretting and chewing his fingernails to the elbow. Beckett would tut at him for that, he thinks, and a stab of instant agony pierces his chest. She wouldn’t, and she won’t. Because she isn’t here. Because she won’t be here.

Because she’s checked out.

Beckett is sitting in the Light Rail Café outside the park, drinking as much coffee as her stomach lining will stand and thinking about nothing except the speed of the raindrops rolling down the café windows. She’s as out of it as she had been in Tompkins Square Park. She doesn’t need to do anything, be anywhere, answer anything. Detective Beckett… who’s she?

It occurs to her that she’s only twenty minutes from the airport. She could buy a last minute ticket: go anywhere in the USA. It’s a shame her passport’s at home. She could have gone anywhere in the world. Just step on a plane and be gone. She watches the raindrops, and lets the time roll by. When it starts to get dark she vaguely thinks she ought to leave. She visits the restroom, and then dawdles out to her car; sits in the driver’s seat, and wonders what to do now.

She doesn’t have to do anything. She doesn’t have to go home, where the pressure of expectation is there in her little stone bird, in the smooth red quartz beside it; she doesn’t have to go to the precinct, where every file reminds her that the victims demand justice. Detective Beckett, Katie, Kate… she’s none of them. All those names come with neediness and demands and expectations that she can’t meet.

What’s in a name? Everything. Everything she can no longer deal with. She stares at her driver’s licence in the dim light of the car’s internal bulbs. Katherine Houghton Beckett. Detective Kate Beckett of the Twelfth Precinct.

Katie Beckett who walked away from the father who didn’t love her.

What’s in a name? Memories; clawing through her; pain and tears. Why are you Katie, why aren’t you Johanna? Her father, drunk. Detective Beckett? Kate, please Kate, I didn’t know who to call. Julia Berowitz, demanding she find her drunkard missing husband. Wake up and smell the coffee, Beckett. You can’t have it both ways. Castle, demanding she see it his way and be grateful for it. My Kat. Just as long as she did therapy his way.

What’s in a name? Only a history of heartache.

She puts her licence away, and takes her car key out, intending to start the car, still with no idea where she’ll go next. It occurs to her that something’s wrong: the keys aren’t right – the key to her apartment isn’t there. Oh, shit. She’s shocked into reality. She doesn’t have her apartment key because she left it so Castle could lock up. He hadn’t given her it back and she’d totally forgotten about it.

Well, that makes her decision for her. She can’t go home. Call it cowardice – there’s another name to add to her total; goes right along with betrayer, abandoner, and victim – but there is no way she’s going near Castle or his loft to pick it up. She certainly isn’t picking up her spare from her father. She’d rather rent an SRO for a few days. He can drop it at the precinct, and she’ll pick it up from Ryan – no, Esposito, who won’t ask questions – on Monday. But she can’t bear to deal with it tonight.

She starts a search on her phone, passing over the missed calls as irrelevant. More expectations which she can’t meet. There’s a cheap chain hotel less than three miles away. That’ll do for tonight. As long as it has a hot shower and she can stop at a pharmacy on the way to buy some bath products, it’ll be fine. She locates a Walgreens that isn’t too much of a detour and, not too much later, is pulling up at the hotel. The receptionist looks at her somewhat askance until she spots the shield and gun, and, clearly assuming some cop reason for needing to be here, asks no questions whatsoever but provides a basic room for the night in short order. She’ll decide what to do about the next few nights tomorrow. Apart from anything else, she’ll need some clean underwear and t-shirts. She doesn’t much like the thought of not having clean underwear first thing tomorrow, but now that she’s here she’s abruptly utterly exhausted, and going out to the Newport Mall to find some tonight is too much. She showers briefly and collapses on to the bed to watch bubble-gum TV till she falls asleep.

Watching a third half-baked, barely plotted soap, it occurs to her that actually she’d be better off telling O’Leary to get the key from Castle. O’Leary, after all, already knows the situation and therefore she won’t have to watch her team speculating and casting sidelong glances and probably tattling to Lanie.   She doesn’t want Lanie to know. They aren’t back on those terms yet. Maybe they never will be. She taps out a text to O’Leary: short and to the point. Castle has my apartment key. Please get it from him. I’ll get it from you Monday. That done, her exhaustion overtakes her and she collapses into sleeping like the dead.

Castle finally gathers up his courage to go to Beckett’s apartment at slightly after eight. He goes down to the garage to use his relatively discreet Mercedes rather than the flashy Ferrari, and as he’s extracting his car key from his pants pocket he finds to his annoyance that one of the keys on his ring must have come loose, because it’s wormed its way down to the bottom of said pocket where it will undoubtedly cause a rip. He tugs it out to put it back where it belongs and realises, appalled, that it’s Beckett’s apartment key. He’d locked up behind him this morning, dropped it in his pocket and completely forgotten to give it back. Right. He’d better return it. And, he thinks, it gives him an excuse to go. Of course she’ll have a spare with a neighbour – his doorman has a spare – but he shouldn’t keep her key.

Not when she’s made it perfectly clear that she wants to be left alone.

He’s just stepped out of the parked car close by Beckett’s block when his phone rings.

“Rick Castle.”

“Castle. What the hell is going on?”

“O’Leary? Uh?”

“I’ve just had a text from Beckett telling me to get her key from you. What the fuck, Castle?”

“Where are you? You’ve heard from her? Where is she? Is she with you?”

“Molloy’s with Pete, yes, no idea, no. Now tell me what’s happening.”

“It’s… complicated.”

“You don’t say. S’pose you’d better come over.” O’Leary reels off Molloys’ address, as if Castle mightn’t know it, and Castle sets off.

“So,” O’Leary says as Castle arrives by his table. “What’s goin’ on?”

Castle had entered the bar to find a relatively normal-sized man sitting with O’Leary. That is to say, he’s only a fraction shorter than Castle, but somewhat less broad-framed, dark hair, blue-grey eyes. He looks up, smiles, and waves his beer bottle.

“So you’re Beckett’s boyfriend,” he says amiably, with a down-home Alabama drawl.

“I wish,” Castle mutters.

“This is Pete,” O’Leary says, rather unnecessarily. Castle had rather guessed that.

“Nice to meet you, Pete,” Castle manages. Pete grins.

“Hear y’all have a little problem,” he says slowly. “Guess I’ll just find myself sumthin’ to do while you’re makin’ plans.”

“Thanks,” O’Leary says, and gives Pete a look that Castle recognises from his own mirror, when thinking about Beckett.

Pete wanders off to play a round of pool. O’Leary pushes Castle in the direction of the bar and a bottle of beer. “Look like you need a drink. Pete, you wanna beer to go with that game?”

“Naw,” slithers round the pool table.

The men crack their beers.

“Okay. What’s up?”

Castle explains. It’s no easier the second time, even massively abbreviated from Dr Burke’s drawing out of every grisly entrail.

“So,” O’Leary rumbles, “she was weird last night, and then you thought she’d fixed the problem. And then you made a dumb joke, Beckett didn’t get the joke, and then you had a fight ‘stead of makin’ up. An’ now you’re banned from the shrink an’ she won’t go with you this weekend.”

Castle nods, miserably.

“An’ you have no idea where she is because she’s told me to get her key from you. So that means she ain’t home. This is a fine mess you got us into.”

“Yeah,” Castle drags.

“So why’re you so worried? So she’s had a spat with you an’ walked off. Happens. Likely she’s found a room somewhere for the night.”

“I don’t think she went back to the bullpen.”

O’Leary’s eyebrows rise. “Really? Okay, why not? Don’t see Beckett skippin’ school.”

“She went off in the wrong direction.”

“Prob’ly just to get away as fast as possible. D’you check?”

“No. Didn’t want to set Espo or Ryan thinking.”

“Good point. Hm. But you don’t know. You’re just thinkin’ the worst.” O’Leary thinks for a moment. “Okay. I think I might wanna spar with Espo next week. Need to set it up.” He pulls his phone out.

“Hey, Esposito?”

“Yeah, look, you know you offered me a match, well, I’m feelin’ a bit unchallenged, an’ I got some spare time next week, an’ I thought if you had a bit of time we could test each other out a bit.”

“Yeah, sounds good. No cheatin’ though. No warmin’ up with Beckett beforehand. She c’n watch. Learn somethin’.”

“Really? Montgomery told you? Wow. Musta caught the flu. No usin’ that as an excuse, Esposito. I hear you’re too mean to get the flu.”

“Seeya next week. Settle it then. Bye.”

O’Leary turns back to Castle. “You were right. She called in sick, musta been straight after she walked off. Esposito don’t expect to see her till Monday.” The San Andreas Fault appears in O’Leary’s brow. “This ain’t good.”

“She wasn’t sick. She just shut down.” Castle looks full at O’Leary, who is looming over the back of a chair. “She told me – she got absolutely wasted like she did once with you – she just wanted to disappear. A while ago. But I think that’s what she’s done. Gone away. I don’t even know if she’ll turn up tomorrow but I can’t be there. I can’t do anything till I get to explain.”

“This really ain’t good.”

“Can you call her?”

O’Leary acquires an expression of confusion of a size which a worried whale might display. “I could, but what’m I gonna say when she asks why I’m callin’?”

“Don’t know.” Castle drains his beer without really noticing. “Espo said she was ill and you wanted to bring her chicken soup? I don’t know.”

O’Leary regards Castle with some interest. “You’d better give me her key, anyway.” His massive visage lights up. “That’ll do it.”

“What?” Castle asks, dully, handing the key over.

“I’ll call her to tell her I’ve got the key. Then we’ll have a bit of a chat.”

“’Kay.”

O’Leary pats him on the head. “We can fix this. Want another beer?”

“Can’t. Got the car.” Castle makes a face. “If I didn’t I’d have had the bourbon.”

“Sit there, an’ stay quiet. If Beckett thinks you’re with me she’ll have my guts.”

Beckett is dragged up from the bottom of the ocean of her sleep by her phone. Automatically, she swipes on: forgetting that she’s not on call and Dispatch won’t be ringing her. The habit of always answering is too ingrained to be overcome.

“Beckett.”

“Hey, Beckett. O’Leary here.”

“What do you want, O’Leary?”

“I got your keys. You wanna come by and collect ‘em?”

“No.” O’Leary hears a yawn.

“You sleeping?”

“No. The phone woke me.”

“Bit early to be asleep. You okay? If you’re ill you should be at home.”

“I’m settled for now. I’ll get them Monday.”

“You got a spare, then? You never used to have a spare set.”

“I’m fine. Stop fussing.” She yawns again. She just wants to sleep, quiet and undisturbed and alone.

“If you’re ill,” O’Leary says patiently but inexorably, “you should be home in your own bed, not sleepin’ on someone’s floor.”

“I’m fine, if someone would just let me sleep.” Please just let her sleep.

“I’ll let you sleep if you tell me where you are. You’ve worried me now. An’ you know it’s not good for my blood pressure for you to worry me.”

“In a hotel. Okay? Stop babysitting me, O’Leary.”

“You need it. You shouldn’t be in a hotel if you’re ill. I think,” he drawls, to Beckett’s astonishment, “I think I should come get you and take you home.”

Beckett stares tiredly at her phone. “Just let me sleep, O’Leary. I” –

“Naw. You sound horrible. I’m going to come get you.”

“Go away, O’Leary. I’ll get the key from you tomorrow if it’ll get you off my back. I just wanna” –

“You just wanna be home in your own place. Not infecting a whole hotel. Not polite, Beckett. C’mon. Where are you an’ I’ll make sure you get home okay. I’m only at Molloys. Not as if it’s far from you.”

“I don’t wanna move,” she says. “Just leave me alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone when you’re safe in your own bed, Beckett. Don’t make me trace your phone to find you.”

“O’Leary, if you do that I’ll report you,” Beckett says, icy anger momentarily overcoming her exhaustion. “You’re not my boss and you’re way out of line here. I’ve told you to leave me alone and I meant it. We are done here. Just leave me alone.”

She swipes off, switches the phone off, and tries to seek sleep again. Some time later, she finds it, by which time all her limited peace has evaporated, to be replaced by inchoate but vaguely unpleasant dreams.

“That didn’t go so good,” O’Leary rumbles dispiritedly. “Beckett threatened to report me an’ I still don’t know where she is. Says she’s in a hotel.”

“Like there aren’t thousands of those in Manhattan.”

“Yeah. I think you have to leave it, Castle. She said she’d pick the key up from me tomorrow. Least you know she’ll do that.”

“You think? I don’t. I think she just said that to shut you up.”

“Yeah, well. If she don’t come by the precinct… we’ll see. Anyway, time I went home.”

O’Leary’s bulk rises from the chair and he moves to find Pete. Castle looks at the surrounding bar and the table and doesn’t find any comfort in it whatsoever. Today, it’s fair to conclude, has not been a good day. Today, in fact, has been a total disaster.

He quietly gets up and exits. No point sitting here, when sitting won’t achieve anything. No point seeking, when there’s no chance of finding. No point to anything, tonight.

He arrives home, avoids socialising with consummate ease, and settles into the comfort of his study and the burn of bourbon, until he’s dulled the edges of the day.

Beckett does not wake early, or easily, falling back into the cotton-wool comfort of a warm bed and sleep more than once before her eyes remain open. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no-one to be. She doesn’t need to do anything she doesn’t want to. And she doesn’t want to do anything. She manages to check out, but only because she isn’t sure she wants to stay another night.

It’s not raining, today. She goes back to the park, sitting where she can see out into the Hudson, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Her phone remains off. Her mind remains blank. The decisive Detective Beckett, always on the move, always doing something, always in charge – has disappeared, and a dead-eyed woman sitting on a park bench in yesterday’s creased clothes and with still hands and empty mind is all that remains.

Presently, she stands and wanders off. Despite her desire to do nothing, she has a nagging feeling that she should at least recover her key. That way, she’ll have options. Starting with clean clothes and her passport.

She starts the car and proceeds calmly through the Holland Park Tunnel and up to the Central Park precinct. She has deliberately not called O’Leary. During the drive, she has acquired some reservations about his behaviour. She has every intention of taking her key and leaving in as few moments as possible. He’d been far too pushy, and she doesn’t want to talk. He never used to make her talk, and she doesn’t like the change.   He’s never expected anything from her, and she doesn’t like that change either.