95. Your eyes are blind

“Hey, O’Leary, Castle.”

“Hey, Beckett,” comes in stereo.

“Beer?”

“Please,” says O’Leary, heaving into standing.

“I can manage two bottles and a soda.”

“You can’t manage four bottles and a soda. Your teeny little hands don’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

O’Leary follows Beckett. She turns round and glares at such intensity that Castle is surprised that two holes do not form in his forehead.

“I can manage, O’Leary.” 

He sits back down, and looks unhappily at Castle.

“This is not gonna go well.”

“Nope.”

Beckett lands in a chair with a decisive thump, sets down four bottles and a soda for herself, and as swiftly produces a notebook. “Right,” she says.  “What do we got?”

The men look at each other with you-go, no, you go expressions.  The silence lasts around ten seconds.

“O’Leary, what’ve you got?” Beckett raps.

“What d’you want? You ain’t told me anything, so why don’t you explain first an’ then I can tell you somethin’ useful rather than a ton of nothin’ that won’t help.”

“Castle didn’t explain?”

“Nope. An’ even if he had I wanna hear it from you, not your boyfriend.”

“Dumb shrink says my dad was an abuser. He’s wrong.  He thinks my dad didn’t mean it when he said I wasn’t enough family for him.  He’s wrong there too.”

“Don’t you think the shrink might know a thing or two?”

“I’m sure he knows lots of things,” Beckett spits out, “but he’s wrong about this.”

“So why’d he think it?”

Beckett briefly relates the reasoning behind the mention of abuse. Castle watches O’Leary, rather than Beckett, as she does.  O’Leary has a very fine poker face, but the restless tapping of his sausage-sized fingers on his knee tell their own tale.

“Mm. Now how about this business of not being enough family?”

Another very sketchy explanation. O’Leary’s fingers are now tapping faster than a virtuoso on a piano keyboard.

“Mm,” O’Leary emits again. Beckett runs out of explanation, or (more likely) doesn’t see any need to explain further, coupled with considerable disinclination to explain further.  There is an ominous pause.  Castle considers O’Leary’s tense, tapping fingers, and the set of his mountainous shoulders.  “So what do you wanna know?” O’Leary says mildly.  Castle is instantly both suspicious and very, very worried. 

“Facts,” Beckett says baldly. “What he did.  What he said, drunk or sober.”

O’Leary repeats the unadorned facts that he’d told Castle a few moments ago.

“That’s it?” Beckett says.  “Nothing else?  You sure, O’Leary?”

“What were you expecting?”

Beckett shrugs, frustratedly. “Something.  Anything.  I know all that.  There has to be more.  There has to be something to prove he didn’t care then and pretended he did till now.  Had me on a string, till he slipped up.”  She shuts her mouth very fast.  Castle thinks that she might have been about to go back to I missed my chance to have a family.

“Had you on a string?” O’Leary rumbles.

“Yeah. He called, I went.  Every single time.  He rang, I answered.  Soon as he got out of rehab.  He kept saying I was the reason he got sober.”  Her mouth pinches.  “He was still lying about that right up till last month.  Made me think he needed me.  Made me think he was making up for never wanting me when he was drunk.”

Castle is watching O’Leary, still. Beckett isn’t paying attention to either of them, staring at the inside of her head, but O’Leary’s mass appears to be gathering itself into a state of readiness.  Castle is developing the clear impression that O’Leary is considering taking some unspecified action.  He also has the clear impression that matters are shortly going to get messy.

“Sounds to me like your pa really did a number on you, Beckett.”

O’Leary’s choosing now to actually force Beckett into talking?  He’s never made her talk before.  Why now?  Where’s a nuclear bunker when Castle needs it?

“What d’you mean?” Beckett snaps.

“Well,” he drags it out so it sounds more like waaalll, “I know what I call it when someone says how high whenever someone else says hop, frog.”

“What do you call it?” Another snap.  Beckett’s extremely limited patience has already expired, and Castle can see the tight line of her mouth and the crease in her brow.  He can also see O’Leary’s small movements, which appear to be leaving him in a position of combat readiness.  Castle shifts very marginally to be closer to Beckett on the other side from O’Leary.  He’s developed an inkling of O’Leary’s next plan.

“I call it bein’ too nice. Lettin’ someone else tell you what to do.  Iffen you get into the habit” – O’Leary’s folksiness is suddenly back, and Castle has to wonder why – “’cause you don’t wanna upset someone, I call that bein’ messed around.  Messed up.  Abused.”

“My dad did not abuse me.”

O’Leary magnificently ignores Beckett’s infuriated words. “I watched you pick him up a dozen times an’ every time you let him say whatever he wanted and do whatever he wanted an’ you just put up with it.  An’ then you stopped an’ you drank yourself unconscious ‘cause you were so upset you let him suffer for his own sins, rather than you sufferin’ for him.  So I’m reckonin’ he did abuse you.  Did he hit you?”

“No!”

“Hit you in the emotions, though.”

“He was drunk.  He never meant it.”

“If he never meant it when he was drunk, he must’ve meant what he said when he was sober.”

Castle is fascinated. O’Leary’s slow, drawling accent makes him sound like a talking haybarn in the Mid-West, but Castle can see where this is going – strangely, Beckett doesn’t seem to, or maybe doesn’t want to – and it’s clear that O’Leary is a very intelligent haybarn indeed.

“Oh, he meant what he said when he was drunk. He just didn’t mean me to know it.”

“So he didn’t mean what he said when he was sober?”

“Exactly.”

“So he’s been takin’ advantage of you for five years by makin’ you think he wanted to be a family?”

“Yeah.”

“So how’s that not abusin’ you?”

Beckett flaps like a goldfish out of water and entirely fails to find words. Every muscle in her body gathers itself to flee.  O’Leary drops a redwood-sized arm round her shoulders.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, Beckett. You want my help to deal with what’s goin’ on, you got it.  But I ain’t lettin’ you go into interrogation – an’ I know that’s what you’re plannin’ on – without bein’ properly prepared.  An’ right now you’re not.  You haven’t even got the story straight in your own head, so how’d you think you were gonna get any sense outta anyone else?  Huh?”

Castle is open-mouthed in shock. He’d had O’Leary pegged as a great guy, a bit big-brotherly, but basically someone who’d let Beckett ride on through.  This is not what he’d expected.  From the stunned expression on Beckett’s face, neither had she.

“You need to straighten up your thinkin’. If you’re gonna claim your pa didn’t mess you up, then you better have some good reasonin’, because all the facts I got point me to he did.  Either he did when he was drunk or he did when he got dry, or both.”

Or neither is patently not an option, Castle thinks, and stays very quiet.

“So what’ve you got, Beckett?”

Beckett pulls two smudged sheets out of her purse and lays them on the table. Castle shuffles round to see them – really, Beckett’s scrawl is practically illiterate: he’d almost suspect her of having skipped school every time that particular one of the three Rs came up – and works out that it’s a detailed timeline, with supporting points of fact, and a not-detailed list of questions.  Hardly any questions, actually.

“Okay,” O’Leary is saying. “You got the same facts I got.”

“Yeah. Let’s start there.  Castle’s facts come a lot later.  Park them for now.”

Beckett and O’Leary go through the facts without anything more, or anything new, coming to light.

“So them’s the facts. What about motive?”

“Motive?”

“Your pa must have had some motive. Feelin’s.  They all do, ‘less it’s a serial killer.  So if you’re sayin’ that he didn’t abuse you even though all these facts say he did, it’s gotta be in the feelin’s.”

“Uh?” Beckett says inelegantly.

“All your facts,” O’Leary says very patiently, “say that he either abused you when he was drunk by sayin’ he didn’t want you till you did everything you could to try and stop him drinkin’ so he didn’t say it any more; or they say that he abused you when he was sober by playin’ on sayin’ he wanted to be a family an’ you saved him, so you never went off with someone else an’ left him to look after himself like a normal adult does. So why’re you still sayin’ that it wasn’t abuse?  ‘Cause I just don’t get it, Beckett.  The facts are starin’ you in the face, an’ you’re ignoring them.”

“He didn’t.” She’s locked down.  It’s a statement that doesn’t admit dissent.

“That ain’t an argument. You don’t take that from your suspects an’ I don’t take it from you.  C’mon.  Can’t you do better than that?”

“Feelings aren’t your concern, O’Leary,” Beckett says, but under the half-rebuke, and the glance he casts her in return, she’s already pale; the crease in her brow deeper, her eyes puddling in pain.

“You screwin’ up is my concern.  We’re pals.  How’re you goin’ to prove the shrink wrong if you can’t even prove me wrong?  He’s going to be clever.”

“Still pretending you’re a hayseed just off the farm, O’Leary?”

“Works for me,” he says happily, but isn’t diverted. “So, feelings.  Motive.”

“Simple. When he was drunk he thought I was Mom.  He was so upset she was dead that he couldn’t control his mouth.  He missed her so much.  Then it wasn’t Mom and he drank to forget she was gone.  Wasn’t about me.  It was about his memories.  Mom kept him together.  So he wanted her and didn’t want me, and when he was drunk he said so.  Like I said, simple.”

O’Leary nods. Castle has the strangest impression that it’s anything but agreement.  Beckett is still completely locked down: not the slightest hint of a reaction.  “And then he got dry.”

“He wanted to remember Mom. I was the only person with any connection.  So he wanted to see me so he had his memories.  Like a living photo.  ‘S not that he cares about me, it’s that he wants to keep his memories fresh.” 

O’Leary nods again, with as little agreement.

“So that’s that bit,” Beckett says briskly, in a very let’s-move-right-along-here fashion.  O’Leary looks as if he wants to argue, and then stops.  His arm is still holding Beckett in place, and then drops away.  “Castle.  What’s my dad been saying to you?”

Castle swallows asking me my intentions like this is still 1890 and takes a breath.  “He asks if you’re okay, and then he says you don’t take his calls.  He says he wants to see you.  That he misses you and you’re his family.”

Beckett’s face remains completely closed down: now white and frozen like the Alaskan winter ice. “So he’s telling you the same bullshit he’s telling me.  At least he’s consistent.”  Castle winces.  “He sounded really upset.”

“Sure he did. He used to sound really upset to me too.  He’s good at it.  Really convincing.  Guess we’ll see on Friday.”  She shrugs, and shrugs off the subject, as if it’s snow sliding off her icy cover.  “Want another?”

O’Leary shakes his head. Castle does too.  “I’ve had enough,” Castle says.  Beckett doesn’t see him tap O’Leary’s knee, or the exchange of glances. 

“Me too,” O’Leary says. “Pete’s cookin’.  He’ll be upset if I’m not there to eat it.”

“Okay. I want an early night too.  Thanks.  Night.”  Beckett takes herself in the direction of the restroom, leaving Castle and O’Leary alone.

“This ain’t right.”

“Tell me about it. I need the restroom.   Can you hang around a moment or two longer?”

“Sure. ‘Nother beer?”

“No thanks.”

Castle disappears. O’Leary meditatively raises his beer to his mouth, waves a casual farewell as Beckett exits the bar, and awaits developments.

“I get what you mean,” O’Leary rumbles when Castle returns. “None so blind…”

“Especially when they really don’t want to see. Any helpful thoughts?”

“Naw. She ain’t thinking at all, never mind straight.  Never heard so much crap in my life, and she don’t even see that none of it makes sense.  ‘S not like her.  It’s as if she just won’t hear anything that doesn’t fit her theory.  If she was like that she’d never have been a detective.  I don’t get it.  What’s she playin’ at?”

“If she accepts the shrink’s right, she’s got to rethink her whole life. Everything about her father.  If she accepts that it looked like abuse, then she’s got to accept that for a while she was a victim.  If she accepts that he does care, then she’s got to accept that she should have told him the whole truth back when.”

“Hang on,” O’Leary whistles. “She never told him what he said?  Oh boy.  Oh Lordy.  He doesn’t know?  You never said he didn’t know what he said.”

“No. He doesn’t remember any of it.”

“Oh, boy.  If I were you I’d be running for Ohio.  Or Texas.  Or out the country.  I hear Iraq’s nice this time of year, an’ it might be safer.”

“Thanks.”

“But since you aren’t gonna run out on her – an’ if you do, I’ll find you – all you can do is be there an’ pick up the pieces.”

“Great.”

“Tell you somethin’, though.”

“Yeah? Am I going to like it any better than the rest of what’s happened tonight?”

“Oh, I guess you will,” O’Leary says happily.

“Go on, then.”

“Saw Beckett’s face when she came in, just before she sat down. Stopped scowlin’ at the world for a moment, just when she looked at you.”  He blushes, sunset over the vast expanse of a prairie.  “Pete looks at me that way,” he mumbles.  “Don’t let her get away.”

Castle doesn’t say a word. From the look O’Leary’s giving him, he doesn’t have to.

“Notice you didn’t say that you were goin’ home.”

“No,” Castle fends off the impending question.

“Good.” He drains his beer.  “See you, Castle.”

“Night.”

Castle exits the bar and decides on a mind-clearing, longish walk. In the direction of Beckett’s apartment, naturally.  He can always pick up a cab if it starts to rain or his feet get tired, but for now he wants the physical rhythm of walking and movement.  Later, he wants a different physical rhythm.  In between, he wants to know what Beckett’s thinking and planning – if she knows.  And it would be extremely pleasant if that took place in conjunction with the same soft affection that she’d been applying to him  yesterday. 

The chill evening air clears his head a little, but not enough to work out any more reasons why Beckett’s so pig-headedly stupid and so determined not to see reality beyond the thoughts he’d outlined.

Dr Burke, having politely escorted Mr Castle to the door, returns to his office and then, reconsidering, enters the small kitchen to prepare a pot of delicate Orange Pekoe tea. He carefully assembles a fine porcelain cup and saucer, measures the tea leaves with exactitude, ensures that the fine porcelain teapot which he keeps solely for this tea is gently warmed prior to infusing his tea, and conveys the result to his desk.  He is, by now, extremely concerned by the potential ramifications of the proposed meeting on Friday, but as he had said to Mr Castle, he is also intensely concerned that failing to have the meeting at the earliest opportunity will result in either Detective Beckett or Mr Beckett taking precipitous and catastrophic action.  Therefore, in addition to ensuring that Mr Beckett has been contacted and has agreed to attend, he wishes to take some time to think logically about this most illogical of situations.  Too, he has failed to consume sufficient fluid as yet today, and his tea will correct that deficiency before he should suffer a headache arising from that lack.  He gently congratulates himself on having researched the science behind the oft-made claim that one should drink eight or more cups of water per day, and having found that it has never been properly tested.  It appears, from the scant research available, that any fluid will suffice, and that in any event the purpose of one’s body indicating thirst is to indicate that one should drink. 

If only minds were as well-regulated as the thirst reflex, Dr Burke laments. Detective Beckett is wilfully blinding herself to the facts, in order not to confront her misconceptions.  Mr Castle, having found himself at the centre of the maelstrom, is desperately trying to stay above the surface while still ensuring that Detective Beckett knows that he is always and only there for her.  Dr Burke thinks, with a detached fondness which he would never show in sessions with either Detective Beckett or Mr Castle, that deep and abiding love for another can move mountains.  Or Detective Beckett, which requires much the same strength.  It is indeed fortunate that Detective Beckett appears to be equally enamoured, although she is far less inclined, or indeed able, to reveal her feelings.  However, they are now perfectly obvious to Dr Burke’s skilled observation.  Mr Castle should have no doubts that his emotions are wholly reciprocated.

He summons his receptionist, and is informed that Mr Beckett has accepted the invitation to the session on Friday. All participants’ presence ensured, Dr Burke considers his notes.  Detective Beckett may think that she will be controlling the session, but she will not be.  Dr Burke has no intention of allowing the meeting to descend into over-emotional accusations.  There will be truth, there will undoubtedly be painful revelations, but to the best of Dr Burke’s considerable abilities as a psychiatrist there will, in the end, be resolution.

He turns to his notes and his papers, and applies a formidable mind to the problems ahead.