I'm thrilled to be participating in the Super Duper Tag Project! It is an honour to get to work with some of the finest writers on FF. Here is my first contribution to the project, a tag to 'Red Tide' a somewhat forgotten episode. I hope you enjoy!
He doesn't get to the beach much these days. People seem to think that all Californians spent half their lives surfing or sunning themselves on the sand, but that's as ridiculous as the idea that all Australians ride kangaroos to work, or wrestle crocodiles every other day.
He's actually always wanted to ask if all those stories are true. Maybe he will, next time he and the team go out to work a case somewhere vaguely touristy. Australians seem to frequent those places in droves.
Lisbon, he suspects, doesn't care for the beach. Not because she doesn't appreciate the scenery, but he suspects the idea of lying about in the sun, being idle, wouldn't sit too well with her. It's a shame, as he really thinks she could do with the break.
Personally, he hasn't set foot on a beach since the day he moved out of the Malibu house. He locked it up, took off his shoes and walked down to feel the sand between his toes one last time and listen to the ocean rolling in, fully intending never to come back. The idea was just too painful. So he turned his back on the ocean and the life he had loved, got into his car, and drove away.
To this day, there's still a bit of sand on the floor of his car that he hasn't had the heart to vacuum up yet, and he's not sure he ever will.
Charlotte had loved the beach. It felt like every morning she'd burst into he and Angela's room, pulling back the covers, tugging on their hands and insisting that they get up, get up, the sun was all the way up now and they'd promised they'd take her swimming today. He was often the one who ended up splashing about in the ocean with her; Angela had never liked the water. But she'd bring a blanket down from the house, spread it out on the sand and watch them, smiling at their daughter's repeated squeals of delight as he chased her through the shallows, and scooped her up, giggling, into his arms.
Back then, at the height of his fame, they'd had more money than they knew what to do with. He could have taken them to amazing places, bought them fabulous gifts, but on the rare occasions he got some time away from the spotlight, they always ended up at the beach.
Cho and Rigsby's heavy footfalls, squeaking comically in the soft sand, are drawing away from him now. He bets that Cho will be on the phone to Lisbon in a minute, informing her that their official consultant is lying, fully dressed on the beach with no intention of getting up. He'd love to hear what she has to say about that. Probably something along the lines of 'jerk' 'bastard' or 'pain in the ass,' followed by an expletive or two if she's really feeling ratty.
Oh well, if she asks, he'll just tell her he's following a hunch. That usually works. Irritated with him she may often be, but he suspects she's still a little in awe of his so-called 'gifts.' Most people are like that around him, until they get to know him and realize what a cold bastard he really is, and they've been working together a while now. If she hasn't figured it out yet, then she's not much of a detective.
He closes his eyes and listens to the rolling waves and the chattering of the people around him and dimly wonders if he might be able to just stay here forever.
He'd like to. But he can't.
Not if he wants to get Red John, he can't. Unless he thinks the serial killer is going to simply emerge from his place of hiding and come here to kick sand in his face or something, which is probably unlikely.
Although, he has no idea who Red John truly is yet. For all he knows, he could be here right now, scanning the shore for his next victim, perhaps laughing a little to himself knowing that he is out in the open, and nobody can stop him.
But Patrick Jane will stop him, one way or another. Even if he has to sacrifice his own life to see it happen.
He would probably sacrifice any one of these people on this beach in exchange for finding Red John. Dimly, he appreciates that this makes him no better than the serial killer, but he can live with that. Nobody ever got anywhere without sacrifice, and he knows when the time comes he'll pay whatever price he needs to in order to get what he wants.
He owes it to them, Angela and Charlotte and their peaceful days by the sea, when the biggest concern was not being bothered to cook dinner when they finally returned to the house.
How times have changed.
"What, you didn't bring a bucket?"
Without hesitation, the little girl passes him her bucket. She probably thinks he's a bit odd, digging through sand with a dress shoe, but her first instinct is to help, rather to comment on it, like an adult would.
Sometimes he much prefers the company of children to adults. Adults have secrets and agendas, and children can't be bothered with that kind of crap. If they like you, they'll tell you, and if they don't like you, they'll tell you that, too. Brutal honesty, and sometimes he feels there's not enough of that in the world.
He smiles his thanks to his new friend, who cautiously grins back and returns to her sandcastle.
His cell-phone rings. It's Lisbon.
"What the hell are you doing?" she demands to know. "Cho and Rigsby came back ages ago."
"Investigating." Precisely, he's investigating how long it takes to fill the bucket up with sand with just his hands. This used to be a lot easier with Charlotte's little plastic shovel. He remembers the time he nearly lost in the ocean. They'd started building their sandcastle a little too close to the water and it had been swept out by the tide.
In hindsight, it would probably have been easier just to pay the few dollars for a new one, but his little girl's scream of anguish at the thought of losing one of her favourite toys had him plunging in the water, just managing to grab it before it went too far out.
He brought it back to the shore, triumphant. Angela told him he was an idiot, but her raised eyebrow was cancelled out by Charlotte throwing herself onto him with such force she nearly bowled him over.
"You spoil her, Patrick," Angela said. "How's she supposed to learn how to get along in the world on her own when she's got you at her beck and call? She'll be twenty years old and you'll still be running after her, giving her whatever she wants."
Thanks to a certain serial killer, he'll never get to find out if that prediction comes true.
"Found anything?" Lisbon's voice carries a bite of impatience as she draws his attention back to the phone conversation.
"Shells." He spots a few, gleaming in the sand a little way away, like little gems, sparkling in the light.
She snorts.
"I'll rephrase that. Found anything useful?"
"Probably not by your standards."
'And by your standards?' she asks.
'Meh."
He hangs up the phone before she can say anymore. He knows they have a case to solve, but right now he's about to create a masterpiece and he can't afford any distractions.
He can sense the crowd gathering around him as he carefully shapes the walls of his sandcastle, and feels himself grin a little. He may have renounced the life of fame and fortune, but there's no shaking his innate need to be the centre of attention. He enjoys it. It's another good thing about working for the CBI, there's no shortage of people to amaze and astound and give his ego the regular boost it needs in order for him to keep carrying on.
He got his family killed. He's got nothing but his work, no friends except his colleagues and no future except for a date with a serial killer, but damn it, he can build a sandcastle.
He spends most of his working life looking for liars and cheats, tearing lives apart, so it's nice to be building something for a change.
The trick is to be gentle with it. Sand is a fickle instrument and if he knocks one turret of his creation out of place, the whole thing will be destroyed. The crowd around him is growing by the minute and he can hear their murmurs of approval in the back of his mind, but he must concentrate now for the final part is the hardest.
The little girl watches him with a mixture of awe and disappointment and he can't help feeling a little bad for showing her up. He places a flag in the topmost turret, and then returns the borrowed bucket and there is a smattering of applause from the watching crowd.
Sometimes he misses the sound of applause. He imagines what the team will say if he ever shares that little bit of narcissism with them, and immediately decides to refrain. They already think he's a pompous ass; there's no need to give them any more ammunition.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots him, their suspect. One of those airy-fairy hippie types, that are wary of police but can be drawn out quite easily when you know how. It seems a giant sandcastle did the trick.
Jane still hasn't come back to the office. She doesn't want to say they're at a standstill with the case, because that's not true, but their momentum is certainly starting to slow.
She won't call him again and ask him to come back though. She won't. They can get along just fine without him, no matter what he might think, and she won't give him the satisfaction of doubting that.
Minelli is thrilled with the upswing in their closure rate since he joined the team, and so is she, but she's proud of all of them, not just Jane. People don't realize that a lot of good police work goes along with his showboating.
Her phone bleeps. A text from Jane. It's a blurry camera phone shot of himself standing proudly next to the biggest sandcastle she's ever seen.
She has to admit, the structure is fairly magnificent. It must have taken him forever, and she resents the fact that the CBI is paying him to engage in these useless shenanigans while he's on the clock.
"Impressed?" the accompanying message reads. "You should see what I can do with a whole day."
Yes, it is regrettably short, but i hope also sweet. I hope my next few tags will be longer and more satisfactory.