The halls of the California Bureau of Investigation are silent in the early hours before the start of another work week. No one sits hunched at their desks trying to finish reports, not when it was the weekend, the time to try and forget the various ills and evils that humans wrought on each other.
It's always surprising how easy it is to get in to the building, especially considering his last visit. One swiped key card and he is just another night watchman doing rounds. He stops before passing the desks of the Major Crimes division. The view of the worn brown couch is blocked by a pillar but he can hear the soft, even breaths of a sleeping man.
Jane
He is gripped with the urge to turn in to the room, excitement dancing down his spine. His ears can already hear the soft tearing as his blade moves across the skin of another neck. Remembering the little girl and how soft her hair was, he imagines running his hands through her father's curls. He wants to watch the light leave the former "psychics" eyes as the blood bubbles at the corners of that oh so persuasive mouth. And what emotions… what emotions would be there in that dimming blue?
Fear? Surprise? Hate?
Would his opponent realize with his last thoughts that he had lost their game on an unexpected whim?
He moves again, forcing himself out of his reverie. He doesn't look into the open room, deciding that he will not on the way out either. The temptation would be too much. He is letting his excitement get away with him. While he could give Patrick Jane a beautiful death, that isn't the surprise he's there to leave. His gift to his dedicated pursuers is something better, something to liven up their work day, give them some incentive.
Closing the office door quietly, he pulls the wide-mouthed jar out of his pocket. As he removes the lid, a small bit of him wishes that Jane would wake up and catch him. Swirling three gloved fingers in the substance, he thinks that if it came down to it, he would probably be able to overpower the other man.
With a chuckle at the thought of getting into a fist-fight of all things, Red John lifts his arm and begins another masterpiece.
A/N: To be honest, this was a writing exercise that acts as a prologue to a larger story. However, I don't know where that will take me or how long, so for now it stands as a one-shot, even if it doesn't really qualify as one. Sorry!