At first he didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to move, to run.
It wasn't fear that was making him move so quickly – nor was it regret for what he'd just done. He'd had years to think about it and to plan and now it was finished. He had accomplished what he had set out to do so may years ago. In the moments after he had done it, he hadn't felt anything, other than a small spark of something – a something that had kept him from pulling the trigger, that had made him call Teresa, that was making him run away now.
It was only as he ran away from the park, from the cemetery that he realized what the spark was. It was the will to live.
He was beginning to gasp, to have trouble getting enough air in his lungs. But he knew that if he was to get away, if he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in prison, he had to keep running.
He allowed his mind to move away from the present – away from the burning in his lungs and in his legs. Instead he concentrated on that spark – the one that had surprised him when it appeared.
He had long expected to die in the pursuit of vengeance; his only hope being that first he would kill his nemesis. And for a long time, he had hoped for death, had longed for it. The only thing that had kept him from it, had been his quest for justice – and for vengeance. His sole purpose in life was to kill the man who had killed Angela and Charlotte. Once he had done that, he had wanted his life to end – to join the ones he loved in that sleep of death.
When that desire to die had begun to change he had no idea. It had been gradual. Suddenly – even as he gasped for breath and ran for his life - he smiled, realizing it wasn't a when but rather a who that had changed him from a man bent on death – to one who now wanted to live.
But he couldn't think about her – not now. Now he had to concentrate on getting away, on not spending his life behind bars. Because now that spark had flared brightly and he chose to live, to go on – and he knew that prison would now be another form of death.
He slowed and then stopped. He had reached his limit and could run no more. He bent over, his hands resting on his knees and his head hanging down. He stood like that for a long time – at least until he could breathe without feeling as if he were breathing shards of glass. He was still panting – and he was covered in sweat – but finally his heart slowed.
He slowly stood straight and looked to see what was around him, where he had ended up after his marathon run. He frowned for a few seconds, realizing that he was in an alley surrounded by a series of old, run down buildings. It was dark – the sun barely made it's way between the structures that had all seen better days. He coughed, finally paying attention to the atmosphere that surrounded him now that breathing was no longer an agony. He grimaced at the smell of urine and decay and garbage – and his stomach clenched.
The only other being in the alley with him was a lone rat – his small, piercing black eyes regarded Jane carefully – as if wondering who would dare invade his territory.
"It's all yours," Jane said breathlessly, pushing himself to straighten and to move as quickly to the street as his shaking limbs would let him. He had to figure out where he was and then get out of the city as quickly as possible. The FBI and the police would be looking for him and pretty soon his face would be everywhere.
He made it to the end of the street, already feeling stiff and sore from the grueling course taken to arrive where he was now. His hands ached as well – but he refused to think about why that was. Right now he was focused on escape – there would be time later to dwell on the why escape was necessary and on the end of his ten year quest.
He glanced to the right and left and realized he'd ended up in a poor part of town – an area teaming with the lost, the injured, the sick and the rejected. He saw people sitting, standing and lying down on the sidewalk. He saw the tents, the piles of belongings, the shopping carts – and knew he'd come to the right place to disappear.
He went to step forward out to the street, but then stopped. He would stand out immediately, if he walked out in a suit. With some regret he peeled off his jacket and tossed it back into the alley. Hopefully some lucky homeless man would find it and be able to use it.
There was nothing else he could do so he walked into the street, better dressed than most even in his shirt and pants. At least he was sweaty and disheveled after his run, allowing him to fit in more with the people around him. He started to walk down the street, thinking about where he needed to go next, when he suddenly spied a police officer walking towards him.
Jane slowed and stopped and then casually turned and crossed the street. He could feel his nerves twitch, expecting any second to be recognized, to have the cop call out to him to stop. But after a few minutes, when nothing happened, he chanced to look back, to see the police officer already a full block away, his back to Patrick.
He let out a deep sigh of relief and kept walking. He needed to change his appearance, and quickly.
After wandering for a few blocks he eventually came upon a small store filled with a variety of things – everything from a bust of Elvis, to blankets and children's clothing. He quickly stepped in and began to hunt in the piles of clothes for a few things to help in his escape.
It didn't take long for him to get everything that he needed. He waited until there were other people at the cash register before making his way to the front of the store. If at all possible he hoped that the store clerk wouldn't remember him – or his purchases.
A few moments later he was back in another alley – which looked almost the same, and which smelled exactly the same as the first. With a careful look around – this time there wasn't even a rat occupying the space – he changed.
The first thing he did was pull down the cap over his head. He knew that his blond, curly hair would be easily identifiable and the first thing the cops would be looking for. He'd also purchased some hair die, but he'd have to find a place to use it. In the meantime, covering his hair was all he could do.
Next he stripped his shirt and replaced it with a T-Shirt – with a picture of Bob Marley on the front. His pants went next and he pulled on a pair of stone-washed jeans, their faded appearance hiding the fact that they were new. He stuck a pair of sunglasses on his face and the final touch was his shoes. It gave him a pang to remove his brown loafers – but they too were easily identifiable so he replaced them with a pair of black Converse knock-offs.
He transferred his own clothes to the shopping bag he'd been given and, with one final look down the alley, he made his way back to the street.
This time he felt less conspicuous and realized that no one was paying him any attention. He felt himself relax slightly, although he had to keep vigilant. He knew that growing careless could cost him his freedom.
He had to walk a few blocks before he was finally able to hail a cab. It seemed as if taxis avoided this area. They probably figured there weren't too many who needed their services, either into or out of the area.
He got into the cab and sighed. It felt good to sit, even if the cab smelled like stale cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
"Hey, where ya wanna go?" the cabby asked, glancing in the mirror at his passenger.
"Santa Monica please," he said softly, then giving the cabbie the actual address.
"That'll cost ya," the guy said suspiciously. "You got enough money?"
Jane reached into his wallet and pulled out five twenty-dollar bills. "Will this be enough?" he asked.
"Yeah, that's enough." The driver pulled out into the road and began to head towards Santa Monica.
Jane dozed as they drove. The traffic was picking up for end of the day rush hour and he knew it would be a longer than usual drive to get to their destination. He knew the cops would immediately go to Malibu and was sure they would be waiting at his house. He also suspected they would be on the lookout in the town – but they wouldn't have any idea of where he was actually going and they would have no notion that he'd go to Santa Monica, the next town over. It should only be dangerous if they put up road-blocks around the area. He was hopeful that they wouldn't.
"This the place?" The cabby's voice woke him from his doze and he sucked in a noisy breath and sat forward, worried that he'd been so out of it as to have missed the entire journey.
"What?"
"This the place," the cabby asked, slowing down and pointing with his chin to a small, white house at the side of the road. The street they were on was filled with other small houses, but they were set back from the road and quite distant from one another. It looked like an older neighborhood and from the state of some of the houses, it had probably been inhabited by the same people for a very long time.
Even though the houses were small, Jane knew that they were worth a fortune, just by the fact of being in this area. He'd seen a couple of new houses and suspected that developers were beginning to buy people out and sell to new, young and wealthy buyers.
"Yes, thank you," he said, handing over the money to the cabby. He quickly got out and then waited for the cab to leave. As soon as it was gone, Jane turned in the opposite direction, past the white house, and kept on walking.
He was smart enough not to let the cabbie know exactly where he was going – just in case the man recognized a picture of him. So, he kept walking – his destination a few blocks away.
By the time he turned down the street he was looking for, it was growing dark. Fortunately he knew the house and walked to it quickly. He was tired and hungry and thirsty and wanted nothing more than to rest.
He could see lights on in the quaint, craftsman style house, and breathed a sigh of relief. With a final glance around, to make sure no one was paying him any attention, he walked up the front sidewalk and rang the doorbell.
A few seconds later he heard footsteps, and then the door was opened. An older, dark-haired woman stood there and for a moment she didn't move. A second later she uttered a phrase in Spanish and crossed herself.
"Is it done?" she finally asked, her voice infused with a soft Spanish accent.
He nodded. "It's done."
"Gracias a dios," she crossed herself again and then held out her arms. "Mi pobre!" she exclaimed. "Come in."
"Are you sure Maria?" he asked. Before he had time to blink the woman exclaimed once more in Spanish, grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. The door closed softly behind him and he found himself enveloped in the warm, comforting arms of his former housekeeper.
"You are safe Patrick," she said gently. "You are safe."
He suddenly began to shake – the stress of the last few hours – days – finally catching up to him. He tried to pull away, worried that he would knock Maria over, but she shushed him and held on tight. Eventually she drew him to the small living room and got him to sit, although she still stayed with him.
He was shaking so badly his teeth were chattering, and he could feel something wet on his face. He was surprised and tried to wipe away the wetness, only then acknowledging that he was crying. He didn't know why he was crying, or even what he was crying about – but that didn't seem to matter. His body was telling him that he had reached his limit.
Maria pulled him forward and he curled up to her, almost as if he were a child. He continued to shake – unable to say a coherent word.
He had no idea how long they stayed there, but eventually he began to calm down. Now, however, he felt so tired his eyes began to close. It was only then that Maria sat up and spoke.
"No, you mustn't fall asleep here Patrick," she told him. "Come, I will put you to bed and you must rest."
He went to say something and she shook her head. "No – no talking. You are tired. I will fix you a small bite to eat and something to drink and then you will sleep. There is time enough to tell me tomorrow."
"I don't want to get you into trouble," he said, although he realized that it was a little late to be thinking of that.
"Don't be silly," she told him. "Now come on – to bed with you."
Jane let himself be guided to the small guest room. Maria made him sit on the bed and then went and got him a clean tee-shirt and some sweat pants. He figured they must belong to one of her sons – her husband had died many years before.
"You get dressed and into bed," she instructed. "I am going to go and make you something to eat. I've left your bag on the dresser," she indicated the bag of clothes he must have dropped when she let him in.
He sat, without moving, for a few minutes. He couldn't concentrate on anything and was even finding it hard to comprehend what was going on. Finally he sat up and took a breath and slowly began to take off his shirt.
It took him longer than normal to undress, but finally he was finished. He glanced around the room and only then noticed all the pictures of Maria's children and grandchildren.
And … Charlotte and Angela! His breathing stopped and he grabbed the side of the bed, feeling sick and dizzy. Of course she would have their pictures – but he wished they had been anywhere but here. He couldn't take looking at them – he hadn't seen a picture of them in years and hadn't expected to see them now.
"What was I thinking?" Maria's voice startled him and he opened his eyes, to see her taking down the pictures. "I am so sorry Patrick – I did not expect you."
"That's – okay," he gasped, trying to breath properly. He watched as she left the room, the pictures clutched in her arms. He knew it was crazy – that he shouldn't have let it bother him – but seeing them again, especially now, was more than he could take.
Maria returned, this time with a tray of food. "In bed," she instructed him. She waited until he sat back and put the tray on his lap. "Eat and then sleep. Things will be better in the morning."
He laughed – although it was full of bitterness. "Maria, don't you understand? I ki -"
"I know," she leaned over and covered his mouth with her hand. "He is gone and they are at rest Patrick – and now it is your time to rest. Eat, sleep and tomorrow will take care of itself."
He nodded and finally picked up the spoon and had some soup, but couldn't finish most of it. He did drink the juice Maria had brought – still thirsty from his crazy run earlier in the day. He got up and used the bathroom and then finally crawled into bed. He was so tired he didn't even bother to turn out the light.
A few minutes later – he was almost asleep – the room grew dark. He was almost sure, in the last few moments of awareness, that he felt a hand stroke his head and a soft voice speak.
"You are safe, you are loved, you are wise."
When he awoke the next morning it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. When he looked around – and saw the pictures of Maria's family – it all came back to him. Suddenly he was transported back ten years.
Maria Medina had been their housekeeper. Angela had hired her to help clean the house and to sometimes babysit Charlotte when the two of them wanted to go out. She had soon become almost a member of the family and both Charlotte and Angela adored her.
Jane had liked her too, although he didn't know her as well. His business was booming and so he didn't see her very often. They were always friendly, and he appreciated that Angela had another adult to talk to when he wasn't around, but he didn't spend much time with her.
It wasn't until after – that he discovered what a truly good person Maria was.
For the first few weeks after the deaths of his wife and child he'd barely known what was going on. He had been numb – getting through each day but not really aware of anything. It was as if he was in some kind of strange fog in which he was existing rather than living. It was only after the funerals, after all the well-wishers and police and neighbors were gone, that things began to become real. It was then that Maria stepped up.
She was the only person that stayed with him after those first few weeks. All his friends – or acquaintances really – had left to go back to their lives. The only ones who had truly been concerned had been Sam and Pete – but he had insisted they go home and resume their lives. He'd promised them he would be fine. He was pretty sure they hadn't believed him, but they couldn't do anything but go.
His father had shown up a couple of weeks after the funerals, pretending to be concerned – but Patrick knew him well enough to know he was just circling around in case there was money to be had. He'd told Alex to get out – and to never come back. He hadn't seen his father since that day. In fact, he didn't even know if the man was still alive.
But Maria had shown up – and continued to show up day after day. He had told her to leave, had begged her to leave him – but still she came back.
She cooked meals for him – few of which he actually ate – washed his clothes and continued to tidy his house. She tried to talk to him, tried to get him to get help – but he had ignored her. Still she came, even though he was pretty sure he hadn't paid her for a long, long time.
She kept it up for months until finally, one day, he'd turned on her. He yelled at her, threatened her, and finally pushed her out of the house and slammed the door after her. He had then gone around the house and smashed everything in sight.
He spent the next few days trying to drink himself to oblivion and had ultimately woken up in a puddle of vomit. As he pushed himself, unsteadily, to his feet, he also discovered that he'd wet himself. Filled with self-loathing and disgust, he'd made his way to the bathroom to clean up.
For the next few days he remained stone, cold sober. He arranged to have men come and haul away truckloads of stuff. Some of the better furniture he'd had taken to the guest-house and covered with dust-covers. Once the house was empty – empty save for a few left-over toys and a mattress under the smiley-face – he knew he was almost ready.
He arranged his business affairs and wrote letters to anyone who would worry about him – telling them that he was going away on a trip. Once all of that was done – he prepared to die.
He walked up the flight of stairs, each step reminding him again of that fateful night, until he came to that same door. He took a deep breath and opened it. The mattress lay there in the room where they had died. He walked to it and lay down. He would end his life in the same room in which his daughter and wife had died.
He had thought, during the previous days, of the many ways in which he could kill himself. He had considered whether to use a gun or poison. He had thought about hanging himself or even about jumping. The problem was, all of them were too quick and he knew he didn't deserve to die quickly. If he had been more courageous he would have attempted to use a knife – to die painfully as had Angela and Charlotte. But he knew he wouldn't have been able to complete the task.
So, in the end he decided that he would die slowly – and punish himself by looking at that face for all the days it took to die and remember that Angela and Charlotte's deaths were his fault.
And he would have died there – died of starvation – except for Maria. He didn't know how long he'd lain there, not eating and only drinking enough to keep from going mad from thirst, when Maria burst into the room.
He vaguely remembered her sobbing and speaking in Spanish – although the memory was hazy. He did remember flashes of others coming in the room, of being taken away, of the bright light when they left the house and the sound of a siren.
His next memory was waking up in a padded room, Sophie Miller sitting across from him and asking him if he knew who he was.
The next six months were spent trying to put himself back together. For a long time they kept him drugged and under suicide watch. And it was true – all he really thought about, when he could think clearly, was how he was going to kill himself as soon as they weren't watching.
Ultimately though, Dr. Miller did save him. It wasn't by making him get over the deaths – or the guilt – but by helping him focus on another goal. Rather than death, he now spent all his days thinking about murder.
Murder, vengeance – killing the man who had killed his wife and daughter – was now his one and only goal in life. Once that was done, well then he could return to the thought of killing himself. And this time he would do it quickly, so no one could stop him.
After he got out of the hospital he was well enough to know that he owed his life to Maria Medina. Now grateful to her for saving him – not because he was happy to be alive, but so that he could start his quest – he knew he had to do something to thank her.
He took some of his money, the money he had made conning people, and bought her a little house in Santa Monica. She was grateful, but he quickly realized she was happier about the fact that he now wanted to live, than that he'd bought her a house.
He had almost let her believe that he was better, that he was moving on. But in the end he decided he owed her the truth. She had sacrificed for him, had saved his life. The least he could do was tell her what he planned to do.
She had been dismayed, but not shocked. In the end she had put her hand on his arm and made him promise one thing. "When it is done," she told him, "you must come to me."
And he'd promised and he had kept that promise.
Over the years he had let her know he was okay, had told her about the CBI – and a little about the team. But he hadn't really spent time visiting her – seeing her was too difficult a reminder of his previous life.
But one thing he had done – a few years into his quest and when the desire to die had faded - was ask her to hold some things for him – some things he thought he might need if he ever accomplished his goal of killing Red John.
So now he was here – here in response to a promise made years ago – but also to get the things he needed to start a new life.
He pulled back the covers and put his feet over the side of the bed. It was time to move forward. He no longer planned to die – but he wasn't sure yet, how to live.
He had done what he had set out to do ten years ago. Red John was dead. It was time for Patrick Jane to figure out what was next.
