Richard Castle: Heat Rises

Barclay didn’t hesitate but ran full-bore up the street, the video whooshing and shaking like earthquake footage as he sprinted. In the distance came their voices, blending together: “Street…” “Camera!” and “Stop!”

But Alan Barclay didn’t stop. The last of his video was the camera flying onto his passenger seat and rolling onto the floor as rubber squealed and the videographer escaped. He got away that night carrying the deadly secret he would hide until years later when Captain Montrose canvassed the old crime scene and an elderly night watchman at a bakery told him about the man he’d seen running away with the camera.

The lights came up and Yarborough was glaring at Heat.

“There’s your proof, Deputy Commissioner. Proof that you waited two years for the dust to settle before you got your revenge. Proof that you paid off those cops and then conspired all these years to keep a lid on it. And I’m going to make an educated guess that, along the way, you utilized your job as tech czar to monitor for any signs of discovery. Like Montrose reopening the old case; like me pulling Huddleston’s computer file; like hacking Jameson Rook’s e-mail and sending it to that reporter to get me suspended when I was getting too close… After your boys weren’t up to the job of killing me.” Heat shrugged. “That part I don’t have to prove.

“You know, the first time I met you, I remember we talked about revenge and justice. And do you recall telling me that all your accounts were settled? I think we just got confirmation.”

“Damn you for this.” To Phyllis Yarborough it was as if she and Nikki were the only two in the room. Her indignation had been stripped away, leaving only the raw hurt and a wound, a decade old and still open. Her face was composed, but tears fell down both cheeks. “You, of all people, should know how it feels to be a victim, Nikki.”

Heat felt her own ache, sadly present every day. “I do, Phyllis,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m sending you to jail.”

A searing blue sky freshened Manhattan as a brilliant rising sun warmed the city for the first time in a week. It reflected on row upon row of badges facing the cathedral on Fifth Avenue, making the thousands of chests that wore them sparkle like a single vast treasure of radiant diamonds. New York’s Finest-plus cops from Port Authority and New York State-stood shoulder to shoulder, filling both sidewalk and street, their numbers obscuring pavement, windows, and walls.

When Detective Nikki Heat emerged at the top of the steps, bearing the front corner of the casket, there was nothing to see that morning outside St. Patrick’s but an ocean of dress blue and white gloves in salute. A lone bagpipe played the opening notes of the sober, joyful “Amazing Grace” and was soon joined by the full pipes and muffled drums of the NYPD’s Emerald Society. The only thing missing that morning was Rook. As Heat beheld the spectacle, she could only imagine how Jameson Rook would have captured it. And made it live beyond the day.

She and the other pallbearers, including Detectives Raley and Ochoa, and Eddie Hawthorne, descended slowly, carrying the fallen commander under the traditional flag of green and white stripes.

Once his body was in the hearse, Heat, Raley, Ochoa, and Hawthorne moved across the avenue to fall in with the grim block of detectives in their tan overcoats. Nikki chose the spot beside Detective Feller, who had stubbornly abandoned his wheelchair for the moment to stand out of respect.

The mayor, the commissioner, and all the other top brass descended from the cathedral to the curb and stood, either saluting or with hands over hearts, before the remains of Captain Charles Montrose at the Full Honors funeral Nikki had attained.

At the conclusion of “Amazing Grace,” the elite motorcycle brigade formed up for escort at the front of the car while the band made two columns behind the vehicle. The muffled drums began their somber cadence, the motorcycles rolled slowly, and the hearse followed.

Then Nikki heard them coming. The low drone sounded just like the pipes at first, but the sound grew, expanding until the thundering vibration shook the concrete canyons of Midtown. Discipline wavered as all eyes ascended to see four NYPD helicopters zoom up Fifth Avenue. The instant they were above the cathedral, one of the choppers pulled up and broke away. The other three continued on in Missing Man Formation.

As soon as they were gone, she returned her attention to the passing hearse, saluting her captain, mentor, and friend. As it moved by the dignitaries, the police commissioner caught Heat’s eye and gave her an approving nod. At least that’s what it looked like through the haze of her tears.

The first thing Nikki did when she entered Rook’s room in ICU was to check the screen for activity. Heartened to see regular green spikes, she stood over him and took his hand. She squeezed lightly and waited, hoping, but her only feedback was his warmth, which was something, anyway. Leaning carefully over his breathing tubes, she kissed his forehead, which felt dry to her lips. His eyes were closed, but when the lids fluttered, she took his fingers in hers again. Nothing. One of them must have been dreaming.

Exhausted from the day, she pulled the plastic guest chair bedside and sat, resting her eyes. She awoke with a start an hour later when her cell phone vibrated. It was a text from Ochoa, who had just gotten confirmation from Ballistics that the bullet he had recovered from the water tower checked out as Montrose’s, matching the reloads from the belt mag. She had just texted back to congratulate him when the nurse came in to hang a fresh bag on the IV tree. The nurse stepped out, only to return a moment later. She placed a container of orange juice and a chewy granola bar on the tray for Nikki and left again.

Heat sat there for another hour, simply watching the rise and fall of Rook’s chest, glad for that miracle and knowing that she would so never hear the end of this.

If he pulled through.

During the eleven o’clock news she ate her snack, and when it ended, she muted the TV. With the report that steam service had been fully restored to all of Manhattan by now, she could finally go back to her apartment. Nikki thought of her own bed… of the bubble bath that awaited her. She got up and picked up her coat, but didn’t put it on. Instead, she pulled out the paperback from the side pocket and sat back down.

“Are you ready for some cultural stimulation, Mr. Rook?” Heat glanced up at him and then back to the cover of the novel. “ ‘ Castle of Her Endless Longing, by Victoria St. Clair.’ Like the title… .” She turned to the first chapter and began to read aloud, “ ‘Lady Kate Sackett stared forlornly out of the carriage as it bounced along the muddy, rutted byway outside her ancestral village in the northland. She was contemplating the brooding form of the castle built into the cliffs when a young man on horseback cantered up to her window and kept pace. He was handsome in a roguish way, the sort of rascal who would charm a more naive woman for his own sport and be gone. “Pleasant, morning, m’ lady,” he said. “These are dangerous woods just ahead. Could I offer to ride along?” ’ ”

Heat reached out and gently laced her fingers between Rook’s, watched his breathing once more, and then returned to the book. Happy to read to him endlessly.