A/N:
Since it's Thanksgiving week here in the US, I'd like to say a few things that I was thankful for in this episode:
1) Jane DID NOT sleep with Lorelei. Nuff said.
2) That kiss at the end was Lorelei's doing and Jane seemed in a hurry to get out of it. Or maybe his ribs just hurt where she kicked the hell out of him.
3) Bret Stiles.
While this wasn't the brilliant "Blinking Red Light" of Simon's last directorial effort, this was still a great episode, with a wonderful new clue as to Red John's identity. Not really a surprise, but now we can concretely say that Jane knows Red John somehow. And I applaud all those fans out there who are scouring each episode from the beginning to record everyone Jane's ever shaken hands with on the show, lol. Good luck with that. I think Jane might take a simpler approach, though, and that's what I've done with this tag.
Episode Tag: "Red Sails in the Sunset", 5x8
Someone like me.
Someone I've shaken hands with.
Someone I know.
Those three sentences were stuck on repeat in Jane's mind to such a degree that he thought he might go mad. He wondered if perhaps it would have been easier on his mental health had Lorelei not let slip this important tidbit. And yes, he'd reassured himself, thinking of those moments in the flea bag motel, it had been a slip. There had been nothing artful about it—it had come out of her mouth in a fit of anger. Jane knew it was very difficult to feign anger convincingly.
So now he was stuck with the triple mantra, tormenting him along with his painful whiplash and bruised cheekbones. Despite his impending lapse into madness, his pulse sped up at the very thought of how close he might be to figuring out Red John's identity. How close Red John might actually be to him. He'd willingly go through any amount of physical pain for even one more small piece of the puzzle, would risk his freedom—his very life-to satisfy his desire for vengeance.
He'd immediately begun a list in his mind, and, as soon as he'd been released from the emergency room, he'd written it down inside his little notebook in the attic of the CBI. The heading of his list read: Men Like Me. He felt that if he could narrow that list down, he could cross-reference it to the other qualifiers Lorelei had mentioned. Writing down the names of all the people he'd shaken hands with since his family was murdered would be a near-impossible task, even with a memory like his. But he'd flattered himself to think that there were few men of his acquaintance who were as focused, obsessed, manipulative, and driven as he was.
Jane had barely written down three names before he was promptly stuck. This would be much more difficult than he'd thought, and he realized that his wasn't exactly an unbiased opinion. Jane knew himself very well, could be brutally honest about his own faults, but perhaps he wasn't seeing what others saw. His arrogance might once again be his undoing if he didn't seek help with this. There was only one person whom he could trust, of course: Lisbon.
A half-hour later, the taxi dropped Jane in front of Lisbon's apartment complex. He paid the cab driver and rose stiffly from out of the back seat. His head was throbbing, along with his neck, but he didn't want to take painkillers; boggled the mind, shook up the old memory palace. He shuffled slowly and painfully to Lisbon's apartment door and knocked. Jane realized vaguely that it must be very late, but he didn't dwell on that. After three tries, he felt her eye on him through the peephole, heard the clicking of the locks, and then she opened the door wearily, clad in a tank top and coffee themed sleep pants. He tried not to notice how enticingly disheveled she looked.
"Jane, do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Uh, late?"
"Two a.m."
He shrugged, winced, grinned, and winced again. "Sorry," he said unapologetically. "I've got something important that couldn't wait."
Her eyes narrowed, and she still stood firmly in her doorway, making no move to invite him in.
"I doubt it."
"You're still mad at me; I get that. But don't you see, this could bring me—us—so much closer to discovering Red John's identity—"
She laughed. "I'm impressed, Jane. Only you could find a whole new way to corner the paranoia market. I can see it now—you will be suspicious of everyone you know, every person you might have ever shaken hands with. Even your friends, whom, before today, you had trusted with your life." She leaned closer to him, her voice lowering ominously. "Hey, Jane…maybe it's me…"
"That's not funny," he said under his breath.
Her eyes widened, as she realized the thought must have occurred to him.
"Go home," she said with a sigh. "Take some of those pain meds I picked up for you and sleep for a few days. I'm sure we can get by without you."
"Okay, I'll go. But before I do, tell me the first person that comes to mind who you believe is most like me."
"There's no one else like you, Jane, thank God."
"Please?"
She knew he wasn't going to leave until she gave him what he wanted.
"Bret Stiles."
He flinched slightly, given that he'd just seen Stiles a few days before, and that the man had helped arrange Lorelei's escape. Jane wondered briefly if she was fishing for information, but her eyes seemed honest and unwavering. She actually believed the old man could be a serial killer, but Jane had ruled him out as not the type years ago. Not that he was totally convinced Stiles didn't know Red John's identity.
"You're kidding me," he said blandly.
"Nope. Just as annoyingly arrogant and manipulative as you are."
"You wound me, Lisbon."
She shrugged. "The truth hurts. Now do I think he's Red John? I've no idea."
"He was seriously your first guess?"
"Yep. You got what you woke me up for, now go home."
"Come on, Lisbon."
She pointed, like she would with a recalcitrant dog. "Go!"
Had his neck not been firmly encased in a brace, he would have hung his head like a chastened puppy.
"Fine. But you realize that this only makes me more determined to figure out who Lorelei meant."
"Yes. You've proven time and again that you'll do anything to get what you want, Jane, no matter how dangerous, no matter who you hurt or worry or anger. What difference does anything I say make to you? And I'll tell you something else, something you might not know about yourself, Jane."
"What?" he asked, for despite their mutual annoyance, he found himself still hungry for her opinion.
"There are some conspiracy theorists in the intelligence community who think that you are Red John."
Jane let out a surprised bark of laughter.
"No, it's true," she maintained. "It started after Darcy began suspecting you of working for him. They say you are brilliant enough to have invented the entire persona, that you are a psychopath with either a sadistic streak or multiple personality disorder. How's that for a guess?"
"I actually hadn't heard that theory. Thanks for sharing. It's even more ludicrous than Darcy's."
"Your obsession with Lorelei only adds fuel to the conspiracy fire, Jane."
"I don't care what other people think."
"How well I know that," she said sadly.
"Lisbon—"
"Good night, Jane," she said. She really didn't want to hear an apology that sounded nice at the moment, but then was totally nullified the next time he did something stupid, or illegal, or hurtful, or all of the above.
Jane looked at her regretfully, some of his earlier euphoria at Lorelei's slip wearing off a bit. For now, he would back off and let Lisbon recover from her annoyance. Her detective's curiosity would kick in, and she'd have her own list of suspects by tomorrow.
"Good night, Lisbon," he said gently. "Go back to sleep."
She watched him disappear into the night, and found to her irritation that she was still fearful for him. Ever since he'd left her for Vegas, she couldn't shake the feeling that every time they said good-bye, it might be for the last time.
"Jane!" she called impulsively. "Be careful you don't scare anyone out there. You look like an extra from a zombie movie."
She could clearly hear his soft chuckle, but she could barely see him in the darkness beyond her porch light.
"I'll be all right, Teresa," she heard him say. "It's nice to have someone worrying about me."
"Nice for you, maybe," she grumbled, before she quietly closed her door.
Still grinning, Jane took out his phone and called himself a cab.
A/N: I don't believe in any of the theories above, by the way. I used to think it was Stiles, but he now seems too obvious. My theory is one I haven't seen anywhere, involving the original cofounder of Visualize. When I saw the spoilers for "Red Barn," it made me believe that even more (see RedBlog). Only time will tell, I suppose.
Well, next week's episode looks to be a dramatic one. Looking forward to some rich performances.
P.S. Happy Thanksgiving, and if you'd like to read (or re-read) a Thanksgiving fic, please check out my old story, "Red Ryder." I can't believe it's been two years since I started writing for "The Mentalist." I'm definitely thankful for all you great readers out there!