Swallowed in the Sea

Oh the streets you're walking on

A thousand houses long

Well that's where I belong

And you belong with me

Not swallowed in the sea

Coldplay

Story: Two years after Red John, Patrick Jane is back in the US, working together with Lisbon and Cho for the FBI while tying up loose ends. When a stalker/killer Lisbon caught during Jane's absence escapes, it doesn't take long for the murderer to go after them in search of revenge, forcing them to take drastic measures. Jane takes Lisbon to a huge part of his past, not realizing that this is exactly what the killer was hoping for.

This story takes place during The Mentalist 2.0, referring to the season 6 Red John storyline (especially the first eight episodes leading up to Red John's death – most references are for The Great Red Dragon's bombing). In this story Lisbon, Jane and Cho have been working for the FBI for some time but there are no references to the 2.0 storylines. This is a standalone story.

Type: Crime/Angst & Hurt/Comfort/Friendship

This story consists of two major parts.

Lisbon and Jane are very good friends, in my universe they don't or will not have a relationship but are very close, like best friends would be.

Every chapter is written in either Lisbon's or Jane's POV.

Swallowed in the Sea

Part One: Closure

Chapter 1.1: Teresa Lisbon

I have to admit I was very surprised and curious when Jane called me late last night and asked me to take some time off. Then he added that he planned on taking time off with me together. To be honest, at that point I thought he would actually ask me out on a date – now, wouldn't that be a first? - but instead, he said he was going to take me away for a couple of days to get out of Austin.

I asked jokingly if he planned on abducting me to his island. It remained quiet for a few moments and I could actually hear Jane's brain work before he said, "No, I'm afraid it's not going to be that exotic. Bring some warm sweaters for the evenings and summer clothes for the day."

"Where are we going then, Jane?" I prodded.

"You'll see," he replied mysteriously. "I'll pick you up at ten. And Lisbon?"

"Yeah?"

"Lock your doors, especially your back door, even if you are on the tenth floor."

"Will do," I simply said.

He forget to add if he was going to pick me up in the morning or evening but knowing him, he would be here bright and early tomorrow morning at 10 sharp, wearing his casual suit – because he didn't seem to own a single jeans in his entire wardrobe – and those old brown shoes he had kept, even on his island, not caring one bit that I had to officially request time off and send in about a dozen or so documents to do so. The one thing I hated here was the paper work: it was far worse than it had been at the CBI. And well, about a million times worse than at my little office, where I could decide for myself what forms I would fill in when.

Of course I made myself no illusions. Jane and I would never be a couple, because neither of us wanted that. At least not that I knew of. Jane was, apart from a very tiresome colleague, someone I relied on, far more than I ever thought I would. Our bond actually went beyond a normal relationship, I was certain. We had been through so much together that it was impossible to ignore that. Even during his time on his island he had taken the risk of sending me letters, unable to forget about the predicament the Red John-case had put us all in. It were those letters that had sent the FBI on his path. To be honest, often I believe he did it on purpose, knowing that sooner or later he would have to come back to reality. And not just that: Jane wasn't the kind of person who could spend the rest of his days resting on his lazy behind on an island. His mind would get bored all too soon.

That was the reason why he now felt so guilty, knowing that the situation I was in right now was the indirect result of his flight from the US. Had he not pursued Red John, the CBI would still exist. Had the CBI still been in place, I would have been there instead of being a police chief in a small Washington hub. And if I hadn't been there in that beautiful, very small Washington town, I would never have been in contact with Dennis James Knowles.

A shiver ran down my spine as I stood to lock the doors, automatically obeying Jane. Then I walked into my small, cozy bedroom to pack up a small suitcase, pulling random clothes from my closet, at the same time texting Abbott that I would be off for a few days and if he was okay with that. It was not as if they could go on without me.

Abbott, knowing perfectly well what Jane was up to, texted back within three minutes: Jane already talked to me. OK, take it easy. Call me if you need anything. Be careful. We're on the lookout. Will keep in touch and keep you posted on the situation.

Thanks, I texted back. Abbott was okay as a boss. He was direct, strict, sometimes aggressive, sometimes angry, sometimes intolerant, yet correct and friendly. He was a typical no-nonsense man, the type of men they liked at the Bureau because they didn't sell any crap. He was the exact opposite of Jane, I thought with a smile. The two couldn't have been more different. But I liked him, even if it had taken time to get used to him. The fact that he approved this strange little holiday showed that he too was very concerned about this situation. That was new to me. In the past I had been the one in charge, now I was the one being taken care of while others took the lead. I liked that. It was calming, somehow.

But perhaps I go too fast with all of this. I should tell you first what's going on.

About a year and a half ago, some three months into my new job as police chief, I had been bored to death. Going from finding murderers, frauds and pedophiles, I had become the boss in a small town where nothing ever happened. I went to the local school to give classes on law enforcement, I spoke to the local town folk about the weather and their concerns whether or not the main road would still be fixed this year. I sometimes had to interfere in an argument at the local grocery store between two elderly men about the last loaf of bread or the last can of corned beef. Yes, I kid you not. The worst that had ever happened there was the stealing of Mrs. Jones's old timer while she lay in hospital for her cancer treatment. After a very thorough investigation (that took about five minutes) I caught the thief: Her own grandson, suffering from a major hangover, lying passed out in the backseat of the car with vomit all over the leather upholstery. Mrs. Jones had been so grateful that she baked me about four hundred delicious cookies that I shared with my colleagues and about half the town. Then she knocked her grandson over the head with her walking stick, sending him to the Emergency Room of the petite local hospital where they had to sew up the gash in his forehead – one which he rightfully deserved, if you ask me.

How I ended up in that situation? Well, partially by choice – after more than ten years at the CBI and all the Red John-havoc, I felt it was time for me to turn the page and go back to finding myself. And partially because I was burned. The entire CBI was, for that matter. We had become the nation's laughing stock when it turned out that Bertram indeed had been part of the Blake Association and had abused his position as the CBI's Director to his own advantage. You would not believe the skeletons that had come pouring out of that particular closet after his death. Jane, no matter what, had done the right thing by exposing him. Gale Bertram, a man I had known and trusted for some time, had shaken my confidence in mankind when he walked into that hospital room in an attempt to murder Patrick Jane in cold blood. The trail of murders he left behind after that, had shown how cold people could be. It had shaken me to the core.

So when an old friend of a friend called me and said the former Police Chief of this little town had died of a heart attack at the age of 86 (!) and then asked if I would be interested in the position, I took it without having to think about it. Here, or so I thought mistakenly, the worst that could happen to me is that some drunken hillbilly would come at me in the local pub. I think I've never been so far off.

I loved/hated it there. I loved it because it gave me peace and quiet. I hated it because I was so extremely bored and only had to work eight hours per day, leaving me too much time to think. I had even considered taking up knitting. Yes, really. Teresa Lisbon and knitting? It was that bad. I knew that my situation had been a temporary one and I was waiting for something, someone to get me out. Every morning and every evening I prayed that that someone would be Jane.

Then, one morning, I was called on my cell phone around 5 a.m. by a very frantic police officer who told me they had found the corpse of a young woman, hanging on a tree just outside of town. I could hear Rick vomit as he told me. He had never seen a body before, let alone a murder victim. The same adrenaline I got from my CBI-work had kicked in automatically. I immediately came over, staring at the blonde woman, experiencing déjà-vû. She was hanging strapped in a tree, her arms and legs spread like Jesus on a crucifix. Her throat had been slit, her clothes were gone, there were puncture wounds all over her body. It was eerie, especially in a town like this one. People who had heard it through the grapevine came over even before the coroner had arrived and prayed for her soul, unable to understand this cruelness. This was exactly what I had left behind: A gruesome murder committed by a terrifying killer.

And right there, right then, I had known – felt it – that it would not stop here. This murderer had not done this the first time.

I will spare you the gruesome details of our hunt but it took me three weeks and three more bodies to find him. He was a local man, a hunter, who had watched too many episodes of Criminal Minds and had felt a desirable urge to murder woman and taste their blood. He had been smart, starting off with petty thefts and small crimes in other states before commencing with the real work. He had chosen women he had nothing in common with, beautiful women he just knew from hanging around town.

In the end it was in fact a miracle he had only been able to kill three women. I hadn't slept for three weeks, using all of my past experiences to catch him. I saw details others didn't, actually thinking like Jane now and then as I worked the case.

The night he went out to pick out his fourth victim, he had made several errors, becoming too bold, believing that no one would ever be able to stop him. That had been our fortune. When we caught him, he confessed immediately, beaming when national television picked up the story and made a celebrity of him. He was an attractive man and I knew there were sick women out there would who would send him photos and letters.

When I caught him and made him confess, he eyed me directly, constantly calling me Teresa and showing me his interest in me. I ignored him of course, remained professional and wrote down his statement, acting like I always did: I didn't care one bit for him. He couldn't handle that. A woman who didn't care about him? Who ignored him?

During his trial, I had explained into the finest details what had happened. All that time, he looked at me while I looked at the lawyers and did what I had to do to put him away forever. I ignored him again, just like I had ignored all of his requests to meet with me.

When he was convicted, he turned to me and smiled. He didn't say a single word, didn't threaten me, didn't attack me and didn't even comment or apologize. But that smile … that was probably worse than any threat he could have exclaimed. He gave me the creeps.

And then I forgot about him, because that's what you do when you do what we do. You move on and you forget about the hell these people put other people through. As an officer of the law you need to let go, you need to put the events away and move on. I had become very good at that.

Then Jane came and despite my protests and threats, I knew from day one I would leave this town behind. Jane got me that ticket into the FBI and when they scanned my past, they also found the Knowles-case and were impressed. Since that day, I didn't look back. I had been working here, in Austin, finding killers again, when the news spread that Dennis James Knowles had escaped. It was Abbott who told me. Jane didn't know anything about it. Or at least he pretended that he didn't.

When Abbott sat down with me and expressed his concern about my safety, I had thanked him for letting me know, stood up to go back to work and then found Kim Fischer standing next to me at Abbott's desk as well. She was the one who told me that Dennis had sent a letter to the FBI, telling them he would track me down and kill me. He had added my private address in the letter, as if to show that he knew all about me. There were photos of me as well. He had become a stalker, setting his eyes on me and naming me as his next victim, then confirming that he would continue to kill as long as they didn't track him down.

I had been threatened before but never like this. It frightened me. He'd had plenty of time to find out all about me during his time in prison. As an exemplary prisoner working in the library, he had bribed some of the guards for Internet access, preparing his escape into detail. There was no doubt in Fischer's and Abbott's minds that he would come after me. They made it a priority case and put him on their Most Wanted list. As long as they couldn't find him, I would be in danger and one of the FBI's rules was that I couldn't go into the field as long as this was the case.

And then they told Jane.

Who had then taken a couple of hours to think about our next moves and had then planned this little trip, asking Abbott to find Dennis James Knowles and to kill him. He would take care of me in meanwhile, he had said. Finding Knowles was not Jane's job. He wouldn't have a clue where to start, that was never part of his workload. He was very good at reading people but finding an escaped convict was the FBI's strength.

Abbott had asked what he was planning to do and he spoke to Fisher, Cho and Abbott in private, explaining his plan. Abbott, still reluctant about working with Jane, had simply nodded, approving the plan. They left in a sort of strange partnership, forged by their concern over me. I wondered how long it would take Abbott to start liking Jane, if he ever would, that is. Jane didn't care about Abbott and couldn't care less either if Abbott cared about him.

I was curious to find out what my former consultant was up to.

When I was packed, I prepared a small tote bag with make-up, bathroom necessities and perfume. Then, with a sigh, I placed my gun and badge on top of it. Because, no matter how much we might think it, people like us never just went on holiday. We left, prepared for anything.