I am super excited yet super insecure (as usual) about this story, so I count on you to R&R so I can hear what you think of it! Thanks to Madam Spooky for reading it for me beforehand and encouraging me to publish in spite of how uncertain I felt.
I don't own The Mentalist. :(
1. NOT NOW, NOT HERE
The sound of metal screeching against metal hurt my ears as the guard opened the cell for me to enter. In there, I could not see much more than shadows; there was a vulture, sitting at what should be the bed. During that millisecond I was glad I could not see much, because I was putting off the moment of the shock, the moment when I would have to look into those eyes again, now that I knew.
And I was right. As soon as I walked in and it was possible to see through the shadows, and I caught a glimpse of that peculiar shade of green looking back at me, with some weird, contained, different emotion, I swear to God that I felt terribly sick to my stomach – and not many things get me sick to my stomach these days. Yet, there she was, staring back at me. Like a stranger.
There was something uncommon about the way she looked at me; at first, my impression was that what her challenging eyes meant was that she was not ashamed of her actions. That she did not regret what she had done. But that was not all I could see in them. There was something else; it was, actually, not like she was not ashamed of her actions, but also that she wanted me to know that. Desperately wanted me to know that. She was deliberately glaring at me. And she would glare at me all day, and would not say a word if I did not say something first. As for me, I do not know what my expression was; all I know is that I felt something almost physically stinging in my chest. And I was sick to my stomach.
"Lisbon," came out of my throat, just a whisper, but hurting its way out and sounding in the silence like a scream.
No answer. Just that glare. I believe I glared back then.
"I had to come here," I said, suddenly anxious to get out of there and not have to look at those hatred-filled, green eyes anymore. "I had to hear it from you, to hear you say you did it. Otherwise, I won't believe it."
For the next thirty seconds or so she remained absolutely immobile, not a change in her challenging, murdering look. Until she suddenly looked down, one of the corners of her mouth moving up in a crooked smile.
"How much more proof do you need?" she looked into my eyes again, the smile fading from her features, except for a shade of it that stayed behind to accompany that evil glint in her eyes.
I swallowed.
"I need you to tell me you did it."
She took a few steps towards me and whispered, that piercing scowl shifting from one of my eyes to the other, repeatedly.
"I did it."
It is a rainy evening, and Teresa Lisbon is looking out the window, observing the raindrops slowly tracing patterns on the car window. She is sitting uncomfortably on the backseat of her team's Chevrolet Suburban. Cho is driving and Van Pelt is sitting next to him; both will occasionally throw disgusted looks at her, next to whom neither had wanted to sit. Like she has some kind of disease. Some disease that allows her to simply look at the raindrops on the outside of the window as though none of her deeds were of any importance. With no regrets. Their boss. How could they have ever known something like this would happen?
Van Pelt's look also has a hint of sadness. Lisbon used to be her idol, after all. Who is she going to worship and look up to now? How is she supposed to still have any faith in people after the only one she would never suspect has turned out to be Red John's mole in the CBI? She looks at her boss once again, sitting there, handcuffed, looking distracted, like nothing much is happening. She contains an urge to cry. And her boss? Well, she shows no emotion. So does that mean that all the emotions she has ever shown before were all fake? That everything she has ever done since Van Pelt first started working with her had been carefully planned and rehearsed beforehand?
The car enters the CBI grounds and a chill goes through Lisbon's spine. Cho and Van Pelt do not notice, but they imagine she must feel something now. After all, she has worked here for many years. At some point she got involved with Red John – and God knows what might have made her do it, but then, if she did it, at all, then that means they really do not know her, so there is no way they can know for sure whether she does feel anything or not. There is no way they can know that she is not really watching any raindrops at all, that what she really is doing is struggling with all her might to keep those stubborn tears from coming out.
She does not understand what is happening.
In fact, she does understand. She does not… acknowledge what is happening.
She does understand it; she knew this was going to happen sooner or later. This was the natural consequence of her deeds. She just has never really thought about how it would be when it actually happened. How it would feel. And she does not feel anything. She is numb. She hears the sirens, sees the lights outside her windows. Blue, red, blue, red, blue, red. She hears steps, then a hard knock on the door.
Teresa Lisbon, open the door. We know you're in there.
It is Kimball Cho's voice.
CBI, open it up!
Now Wayne Rigsby's. She can not bring herself to walk towards the door and open it. So she squints… any second now… A bang, and the door is open. They run inside, armed, wearing bulletproof vests – a silly thought comes to mind; where is hers? They point their guns at her. Cho, Rigsby, even Van Pelt. The latter looks at her with a mixture of disappointment and disgust.
Just as much as Teresa Lisbon was not able to open the door, she is not able to run or hide. She just stands there.
Let me see your hands!
She does not raise her hands. She does not move. She barely sees or hears anything anymore. She is numb. They get to her, grab her arms, search for guns hidden under her clothes. There is nothing. She hears the words she has spoken so many times before; they are now being said to her.
Teresa Lisbon, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…
Her arms are held to her back and her wrists tied by handcuffs.
… anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
Hands pull her, forcing her to walk forward, which she does as though automatically, without really thinking while moving one leg after the other.
You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford one, one will be provided for you by the state.
They are outside, walking through the lights, red, blue, red, blue. They hurt her eyes. A hand pushes her head down, helping her into the Suburban, the same one she has driven to and from crime scenes so many times. The same one she has used to take arrested criminals to the headquarters for questioning. The door closes. Silence. She lets her head fall back against the seat, because it suddenly seems to weigh a hundred pounds. She closes her eyes, to protect them from the lights. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. The front doors open, startling her. Cho takes the driver's seat and Van Pelt sits next to him.
Lisbon closes her eyes again.
As I entered the building where I had worked for so many years, now not as an officer of the law, but as a criminal, I did not feel much at all. Tears were pretty much under control now – I had managed not to cry a single one of them, and I was now concentrating on the task of keeping my face as expressionless as possible.
Of course it was not easy to enter that building handcuffed, held by both arms, seeing the faces I was used to seeing every day, all looking at me in shock. But it was not as bad as I had imagined when I had considered the possibility of that day happening. I must confess it was even a bit amusing to see; people were not even trying to pretend they were not looking, they all just stood, watching, with their arms folded, their mouths open, whispering to one another about me. Judging.
But there was one person's reaction in particular that I wished to see. I wanted to get that over with. He was going to see me, throw a disappointed look at me, maybe come see me in my cell. I could not, actually, predict what he was going to do. I wanted that to happen as soon as possible, so I could stop imagining. Once that was done, the most important part (and the most difficult, I recognize) of my job would have been accomplished.
Just a little bit longer, I was telling myself.
But I did not see Patrick Jane on my way to the interrogation rooms. I did not see him at all that day.
A quiet knock on the door startles J.J. LaRoche. These days, even a quiet knock startles him; one of the bureau's best agents has been found out to be a mole connected to the worst serial killer in the history of the state of California. So that is how he has been living in the last few days – like he has no idea of what comes next.
Fortunately, it is only Patrick Jane.
"J.J.," he says, as though asking for permission, which LaRoche grants him with a wave of his hand.
He is not smiling as usual, though. LaRoche guesses the shock has caught everyone off guard, even the smartass, cold bastard of a consultant who is right now walking towards his desk. He does not know what Jane wants, but he knows what he wishes to hear from him.
"How can I help you, Mr. Jane?"
"I'm here to ask you a favor," he says, as soon as he has taken a seat across from the boss.
"Shoot," LaRoche retorts; no time for runarounds.
"I need you to transfer Lisbon away from here."
LaRoche lets out a sigh.
"She hasn't said anything yet. We need to question her further."
"She's not gonna say anything," Jane replies. "Not now, not here. Besides…" he seems to hesitate, his eyes moving quickly from side to side as if he is looking for a way to say what he wants to say next, until he finally says it. "I can't be in here knowing she's downstairs." He shakes his head quickly, in a sign of huge uncertainty and discomfort. "I just can't."
"And you can't question her either," LaRoche wants to know, finally addressing the subject he actually wants to talk about.
Jane's expression suddenly goes from uncertain and uncomfortable to desperate. He shakes his head again.
"No, I can't. Not now, not here. Here is where we used to interview criminals… together… I can't interview her here."
Jane seems really shaken. It seems the man is capable to feel something, after all, LaRoche thinks. He sighs.
"Okay, Mr. Jane. I'll take care of it. But once she's been transferred, you're going to interrogate her, try to get her talking, is that clear?"
Jane takes in a deep breath.
"Yes, it is."