Bab 118: 118. Evening falls so hard
“What’ve you got, Espo?”
“I’ve got ID on those fingerprints – well, some of them. Some are Belvez – expected that – some are Petersen – checked that after Ryan found her on the footage. There’s one more bunch of prints that we can’t ID – guess those are Bolton’s.”
“Okay, so they were all handling the cans. Have we got prints from those lens cases?”
“Waiting for them.”
“Speed them up.”
Espo scowls dyspeptically at Beckett’s oblivious head. He’s been trying. On the other hand, this is badass Beckett, the terror of the Twelfth (and plenty of other places), back in business, which is good.
“I want to know whose those prints are,” Beckett growls. “Troy Bolton my ass.”
“Could be Chad Danforth,”
“Who?” Beckett says dangerously. It’s not a question, despite the uplift at the end.
“Er…” Beckett fixes him with a scowl straight from the veriest depths of Hell, Castle thinks. “Hang on, you knew that! You’ve seen High School Musical. Why, Beckett!”
“Got ‘em, Beckett,” Esposito says, just before she whips up her Glock and shoots Castle.
“What?”
“Lens case prints.”
“Whose are they?” she says.
“Belvez, and some guy called Carter. Kyle Carter.”
“What’s he?”
“Still running him.”
“Is it the same as the prints on the cans?”
“No.”
“Carter’ll be the CIA spy,” Castle says happily. “Just you wait.”
“No spies.”
“Awww. No fun.”
“Catching killers is not entertainment,” Beckett says repressively. It has no effect whatsoever on Castle’s happy bounciness.
“But spies, Beckett.”
“No spies.”
“But” –
“No spies.”
Castle slumps back in his seat, pouting. Beckett regards Esposito’s desk. It could not be said that she was glaring. It could, however, be said with total truth that her fingers are tapping impatiently. Very impatiently. Castle is not stupid enough to point the tell out. Nor is he stupid enough to remind her of her appointment with Dr Burke this evening. Nor does he remind her that they missed lunch, though his stomach is reminding him of that approximately every ten minutes. He doesn’t want to do anything, this afternoon, that might disturb Beckett’s murderer-hunting equilibrium. There will be quite enough disturbance at Dr Burke’s. But he might wander out and get them coffee and pastries, or doughnuts. He’d better get enough for the boys, too.
He stands up. Beckett looks up.
“Where’re you going?”
“Coffee.”
“Yes please,” she says, only half aware that he isn’t aiming for the break room. Castle escapes without further interrogation.
Further interrogation by Beckett, that is. Ryan has whipped into the elevator with him.
“Come to carry the doughnuts?”
“Yeah.” The doors close. “And to check if Beckett’s okay.”
“Why?” Castle asks bluntly, and without much consideration for Ryan’s feelings. “I thought she’d made it pretty clear she didn’t want fussed round.”
Ryan colours up. “I don’t think it’s fussing to make sure she’s okay.”
“She’s okay,” Castle says blandly. “Stick to the crime, or ask her yourself.”
“I’m not that dumb.”
Castle says nothing, very pointedly. He sympathises with the boys’ desire to ensure their team is all okay and that Beckett’s back in business. He does not sympathise one jot with them asking him about it. They should know not to. He turns to the serious business of selecting doughnuts and getting the correct coffee order.
Back in the precinct, Ryan back at his own desk and explaining something to Espo in an undertone – Castle assumes it to be a rather bitterly edged variant on never said squat – Beckett is still tapping and glaring. This time, though, she’s glaring at her timeline and murder board. Suddenly she pushes off the edge of the desk.
“Ryan!”
“Yo?”
“What happened with the Silver Center footage?”
“Still getting the techs to run it.”
Beckett mutters darkly to herself. She can feel the picture coming together, but she needs more to get a warrant for Petersen’s bank records. On the other hand, she already has Belvez’s. But there had been no mysterious large lodgements there. She’d certainly have noticed that. Without noticing, she’s drunk her coffee and eaten the doughnuts. Without noticing, it’s five-thirty.
Definitely noticing is Montgomery, who has emerged from his Captain’s cave to glare impartially around the room. Castle catches the glare. Beckett doesn’t, but on Castle’s indrawn breath she looks up.
“What is it?”
“It’s half past five. You have an appointment.” Beckett says something short and very rude. “And Montgomery is about to throw you out because it’s end of shift.” She says something even more rude. “If he hears that there’ll be trouble. Such dreadful language,” he says sententiously, “for a young lady.”
Beckett regards him with considerable disfavour. “Like you’ve never used dreadful language, old man?”
“Old? Old? I am in my prime.” He leans in. “And since I still owe you your just desserts from yesterday, we’ll just add today’s insults to the total. I’ll show you old,” he grumbles.
“Beckett,” Montgomery raps behind her head, “since you apparently failed to look at the clock, it’s end of shift. Time to go. I want you out of here in the next five minutes – and you pair,” he adds to Ryan and Esposito. “And since I also know that you are all off shift this weekend, I don’t expect to see a single alteration to the state of that murder board before Monday morning.” To emphasise his point, he takes a photo of it on his phone. Beckett only just manages to choke off her infuriated yowl. She had planned to do some serious thinking over the weekend, and now she’s been kyboshed.
She’s still griping about Montgomery until they reach Dr Burke’s office, when she is recalled to the reasons for being here and is abruptly sobered and tense. Castle reaches for her hand and links his fingers between hers, small contact to provide reassurance.
“Good evening, Detective Beckett. Mr Castle.”
“Hey.”
“Hallo.”
“What would you like to discuss?” Dr Burke asks Detective Beckett, noting in passing that Mr Castle has hold of her hand, lightly, to be sure, but he is in contact. Dr Burke’s instincts are aroused. The need for contact indicates that Detective Beckett is under some stress. This is hardly unusual. He allows the silence to continue, in order that Detective Beckett may take some control of the direction of the session.
“I wanted to call Dad,” she says bluntly. “But I was scared that he won’t talk to me. And Castle said he thought that it would be better to do another joint session with Dad and me instead.”
Dr Burke is very grateful for Mr Castle’s suggestion, and for the way in which he had managed to stop Detective Beckett committing the cardinal error of speaking to her father without planning or preparation, and without, therefore, a clear view of the outcome she wishes to achieve with such a call.
“I think that might be wise,” Dr Burke says mildly. “In that way you may first discuss the outcomes you wish from such a meeting with your father, and then if the joint meeting is not progressing as you would prefer we can pause it or defer it until a later date. What do you wish to achieve?”
“I need to hear his side of the story. Try and work out if he’s telling the truth about wanting to be a family.” Detective Beckett’s mouth twists. “He can be witness in his own defence.”
Mr Castle winces, clearly envisaging a rerun of last Friday’s meeting. Dr Burke is far more sanguine. Detective Beckett appears much calmer and far more grounded, and she is thinking relatively clearly, albeit prompted by Mr Castle. However, if she had been in the same headlong mode as had been evident prior to and including last Friday, she would not have accepted the suggestion that she should not immediately call her father but instead discuss the possibility of a moderated meeting tonight. Dr Burke considers this to be very substantial progress.
“That appears to be a very good place to begin. How will you then approach it if, firstly, you assess him to have been telling the truth when he became sober, with the exception of his error of a few weeks ago, and then, separately, if you assess him to have been telling the truth when drunk?”
Detective Beckett opens her mouth, then closes it, and becomes deep in thought. Mr Castle also appears deep in thought, although Dr Burke wonders whether Mr Castle’s thoughts bear any relation to the subject at hand. He appears to be twitching the fingers of his free hand in a way which strongly suggests that he wants to write something down. After a moment the twitching irritates Dr Burke sufficiently that he rises, retrieves a pad and pen from his desk and hands it to Mr Castle, who absently thanks him and begins to scribble rapidly. Detective Beckett does not appear to notice or, if she does notice, care. Presumably she is used to Mr Castle’s inspiration-driven fugues. Dr Burke admits to himself that Mr Castle is much more restful, and considerably less aggressively protective, when he is scribbling, and considers the virtues of providing him with pen and paper immediately upon his entry should he be attending with Detective Beckett at any future time.
Finally Detective Beckett looks up. Mr Castle almost immediately ceases to scribble – really, his handwriting is almost doctoral in its illegibility – caps the pen, tears off the sheets upon which he has written and tucks them into a pocket. He lays the pen and paper down and returns one hand to intertwine with Detective Beckett’s. She does not appear to react. She is, Dr Burke thinks, entirely focused on her views of the directions to take with her father.
“If he was telling the truth,” she says, edged with pain and acid, “if… then” – she gulps, and steels herself: Mr Castle’s hand tightens round hers – “then we need to talk about what he said when he was drinking, not just when he was drunk.”
“Mmm?” hums Dr Burke encouragingly.
“He needs to know all of it. Why… why everything. Why I walked away.”
“He also needs to know not just your reasons for acting as you did, but how you felt at each time. You need to acknowledge your own feelings, and express them. You had the right to do so, but were convinced otherwise. Now is the time to remedy that earlier situation.”
Dr Burke keeps from his face the satisfaction of knowing that the previous practitioner is currently being examined by a professional conduct board.
“How I felt?”
“Indeed. We can discuss that, so that you understand your own feelings, and why they are valid, before attempting to explain them to your father. Now, what do you wish to achieve by telling that to your father?”
“I…” she stops. “I want him to understand that it wasn’t just him who was hurting. That when I needed someone to lean on there wasn’t anyone. That I didn’t have my dad. I had to do it all myself and then I had to try and look after him.” She stops again. “That I wanted him to love me, not some memory of Mom.” Her hand tightens brutally on Mr Castle’s: knuckles white; skin, face pallid; nail tips piercing the fabric of Dr Burke’s pale blue couch. Dr Burke briefly hopes that it will not rip. It had been quite costly, although he considers that his patients deserve comfort, not penny-pinching.
“And then, when you have explained that?”
“I think… maybe he needs to explain again. What he felt, then.”
Dr Burke could cheer, were he of such an uncontrolled disposition, which he is not. Detective Beckett has, at last, applied her intelligence in the correct direction. This is to be a discussion, not a diatribe. Of course, it may still degenerate, but it will start on the correct footing.
“Mmmm?”
“I don’t know, after that. I don’t know if I can listen and not get angry. Even if he’s been telling the truth all this time.” She looks unhappy. “I don’t think it’ll be like it is on TV: everyone hugging it out and it all being forgiven in one go. I don’t think I can do that.”
“Television is hardly a good guide to the reality of psychotherapy,” Dr Burke points out acerbically. Really, television has done more damage to the image of his profession and the results that patients expect from it – and in a ridiculously short time, too – than anything since psychiatry’s invention. “In fact, it is so unlike reality that I would counsel you to ignore everything that you may have seen. It is utterly unrealistic to expect that you can forgive ten, or indeed the initial five, years of trauma with one talk. Forgiveness, if it is even warranted, takes time. Amends must be made, and feelings accepted. If you were to think that you had forgiven all your father’s transgressions in one session, I would expect you to be seeking help again exactly as you have had to now, in two years or so. You cannot reasonably forgive your father in full until you have forgiven yourself, and that is unlikely to be immediate.”
Dr Burke, to his shame, realises that he has himself become emotional, and has emitted a sound that might be best transcribed as pah! He retrieves his composure and calm voice, and nearly loses both again when he realises that Mr Castle is scribbling once more. Dr Burke has a sudden disconcerting feeling that Mr Castle is making notes on him, and hopes with all his heart that he is not going to appear in a mass-market thriller of the sort sold in airport bookstores. Perhaps he should endeavour to read one of Mr Castle’s books?
“Oh,” Detective Beckett says. She appears much relieved, if depressingly surprised, by his words. “Oh.”
“It need not all be said at once, either. You need only say as much as you feel able to manage, and then you may pause, or stop, or ask your father to leave temporarily or completely so that you may discuss your feelings with me thereafter. You may have Mr Castle with you if you so wish, though that is always up to you.” Dr Burke allows that to permeate. “I think you are wise to pause there, and not plan any further ahead. It will be much more efficient to await the results if matters eventuate in this way.”
“Okay,” Detective Beckett says, slowly. Of course, Dr Burke thinks, she would prefer to have every possible option analysed, but that would be very unproductive, and will be entirely likely to lead Detective Beckett into a maze of differing possibilities and probabilities, which will not be conducive to clear thinking and a successful resolution in the minimum necessary time.
He allows Detective Beckett a brief time to process all that has been said. Mr Castle has stopped his scribbling, and has removed his hand from Detective Beckett’s in order to place it round her shoulders. Dr Burke deduces that Mr Castle expects that the second alternative which Detective Beckett must consider will require some more definite reassurance. Dr Burke does not consider Mr Castle to be wrong in this expectation.
“So, Detective Beckett. You have adequately considered the strategy to be followed should your father have been telling the truth when sober, about wishing to be a family again. Shall we now consider the strategy to be followed should you determine that he does not appear to have been telling the truth?”
“I suppose so.”
Detective Beckett takes another short while to consider her thoughts. This time Mr Castle does not attempt to scribble. This may be because Detective Beckett is both mentally and physically shrinking away from the hard answers which she has clearly reached.
“If he was telling the truth when he was drunk…” she takes a breath, and continues “…then I have to… to accept that he’s not going to be a family. That it’s all been a lie. And maybe I need to tell him that and move on. Work out what I would have liked, and why seeing Castle with Alexis was so painful, and try to work through that instead.”
“Mm?” Dr Burke queries. Detective Beckett is missing an aspect of this alternative scenario. She has not mentioned her own forgiveness of herself. She has also stopped speaking, and her eyes are puddled. Mr Castle is quite definitely holding her comfortingly. She sniffs. Mr Castle, in a manner completely suggestive of a parental reflex, passes her a Kleenex and only just snaps his mouth closed before uttering a comment of the order of Blow, honey. Some aspects of raising children are never forgotten, and some reflexes do not diminish with time. However, it would have been regrettable if Mr Castle had spoken the words upon his tongue. Detective Beckett’s reflex reaction would undoubtedly have been discomposing to the harmony of Dr Burke’s décor, and to Mr Castle’s pain-free existence.
Detective Beckett does not seem to be making the necessary connection to her self-forgiveness.
“How do you think that you will move on?”
There is a long, pained silence.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you want to achieve?”
“I want… I want to have a normal life. Be able to go to Castle’s without worrying about breaking down. Not be worrying about my father.” Mr Castle pulls her closer, and murmurs something inaudible to Dr Burke.
“What do you think would stop you worrying about your father, if you have already concluded that he does not wish to be a family?”
Detective Beckett shrugs, to the limited extent that Mr Castle’s grip allows. As Detective Beckett has shrunk, he appears to have expanded to encircle her.
“I don’t know. You can’t stop caring just like that.”
“But you will have done all you can.”
“Will I?”
“You will,” Dr Burke says sternly. “There is no point continuing an unproductive line of action. I am sure that you do not pursue unproductive lines of enquiry at work, so why should you do so in your private life?”
“But there I’m sure I’ve done everything I can. Got to the end of the trail. How do I know that here? How do I live with myself if I can’t look in the mirror and say I did everything I could? How do I forgive myself for not being a family?”
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